


Repairing the Broken Things

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Feelings Realization, First Time, Healing, Hospitals, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, Kintsugi, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Misunderstandings, Mycroft To The Rescue, Pneumonia, Sharing a Bed, Use Your Words, season 4 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-06-26 23:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 75,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15673239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."





	1. Chest Rise, Chest Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, musings run deep at a hospital bedside.

_Blank canvas, but not. It is bisque. Unblemished. Greenware._

_The artist sits quietly, the pottery next to him. There is a turntable on the workspace, and sturdy fingers turn it, unhurriedly, studying it from all angles. He has learned not to rush this part._

_It will speak to him. He will listen._

_The piece tells a story already, but the artist will uncover it. Expose it. He will harness it, embrace it, describe it, cement it and watch it emerge as if with new life. A chrysalis. It subtly communicates its wishes, leans toward the type of telling, the script a work in progress. It will choose surface, media, colour - what it wants. What it needs. It thrums under his fingers with the potential of absolute beauty._

_Metamorphosis._

_It draws him in, and he already can feel a kinship with it._

_The promise tingles from his skin, his mind, his talent engulfing the blank object. They will become one and create something beautiful together._

_~~~_

Chest rise, chest fall.

Restraints. Dressings, upper extremity bruises sliding into a lightweight fiberglass arm cast, bandages, a chest tube. Pneumatic stockings, braces to prevent foot drop. IV fluids, titratable medications, tube feedings through small bore tube through the nose. Urinary catheter snaking out from under the sheet to hang like a bag on a meat hook from the bed frame.

Skin. Bruises. _God, the bruises_. An abrasion along his jaw, another at his temple, the golden silver hair now mildly greasy. No shower in quite some time, waterless shampoo cap ineffective, offset when coupled with fever, diaphoresis, a couple of endless days of bedrest, liquid diet, and stress. A few scabs. A suture line over the bridge of his nose, the little blue strings sticking up.

IV lines, changed from the at-the-scene trauma management IO to a triple lumen at his collarbone, they'd explained to him in simple terms. As if he didn't comprehend the words intraosseous or subclavian. _Idiots_ , the lot of them, Sherlock groused inwardly but fortunately kept his litany and most of his internal monologue to himself. No one knew John like Sherlock did. No one had a right to know John any better than he, either.

An ugly patient gown, draped over him, tucked under him, dipping underneath sheets and asymmetrically crooked along the arms. Sherlock hated everything about the hospital linens, that gown especially, from the fit to the colour to the fact that it was needed in the first place. He hated them more than the jumpers, but with the realisation that he did actually long for the day John would wear a jumper. He would never mock them, never again. Sherlock realised, after seeing too many endless days of this ... these gowns in all their monstrosity, paisley and fleur de lis and the occasional snap that didn't stay closed. Ties that were never tied - bedrest - one shoulder in navy, the other in teal. Matching coloured bindings for healthcare workers, Sherlock thought more than once as he watched seasoned providers not even have to consciously think about changing a gown, while the newer staff or a patient care tech still occasionally struggled. He wanted to use it as a barometer for staff allowed in John's room, thinking that an ICU should only have skilled staff with years of experience who were not even momentarily baffled trying to dress their patient.

Can't do up the ugly gown in eight seconds? Then get out. Easy as that. A screening tool to weed out the unacceptables.

_If you can't skillfully do this one task, you have no business tending John._

The gown over John's chest hitched a bit as he coughed - or tried to given that the machine sensed each breath and alarmed obnoxiously at changes in pressure, rate, volume, condensation, or circuitry changes. Today the gown was crisp as if hardly worn, colours a bit brighter than some of the others. But still ugly, _hideous_ , he acceded, looking at the fabric again rising and falling on John's chest. Inspiration of the mental kind had him scrolling through the few pictures he kept saved in a somewhat buried file on his mobile and finding a particularly hideous jumper, for comparison and to ease the boredom. And to keep his mind from excessive worry. John's jumpers might still merit ridicule. Especially that aqua blue patterned one from Harry a few Christmases before.

Chest rise, Chest fall.

Sherlock longed for the day when he could take John home, home to Baker Street and not that other ridiculous flat, bring him and Rosie home where they belonged.

Rosie. He would touch base with the hired, well-referenced nanny in a bit. Rosie, like Sherlock, in limbo. Waiting. She was blissfully unaware, however, at where her father was and what had befallen him. In part, Sherlock envied her.

He would terminate John's lease agreement. Or get Mycroft to see to the task. No matter the outcome ... Sherlock sighed, a sad resigned, nauseous churning in his core. No sense paying on the flat that was empty. Particularly when John didn't belong there to begin with. He belonged on Baker Street, with him. He and Rosie, the three of them together. Well, there was that decision then, another text - a demand - sent to Mycroft.

The ventilator alarmed, a harsh beeping accompanied by flashing lights on the top. A glance at the control panel, high airway pressures, quickly resolved without outside intervention. The footsteps at the doorway evaluated the need, watched for a bit, reset the alarm with a nod in his direction. John's room throughout the day had a steady stream of people - physicians, intensivists, nurses, respiratory therapists, physical therapists. And case managers, one of whom had been by with a pamphlet on skilled rehab, noting that sometimes patients needed months of therapy and rehabilitation services before ever making it home. That was, of course, provided that eventually John would breathe on his own, without the ventilator, without the endotracheal tube. Sherlock had done enough research to know that in a few days, one of the doctors would bring up the possibility of a tracheostomy, and Sherlock was already dreading that discussion. Many hurdles ahead.

Not John. Sherlock's thoughts started to go down the significant neurologic impairment arm of their journey, the variables yet to be determined. How significant the head injury may or may not have been. He tabled any thoughts that didn't line up with a full and timely recovery. Not his John.

No. No. _Nope._

Chest rise, chest fall.

The nurses had grown used to seeing him as they provided feedings, medications, turning, caring. Daily efforts at weaning, ventilator settings explicated, weaning modalities over these days. These long, long, _long_ days, making more sense of the plan of care as time passed, the expectations, the rationales, the bloody procedures that John was forced to endure. Shortly they would ask him to step out for another spontaneous breathing trial. He was asked to leave to minimise stimulation, give John the best shot at this, at breathing calmly. Again. Adaptive support ventilation, similar to intrinsic breathing, the machine supporting while John would initiate every breath, every tidal volume. It most often lasted only between eight and fifteen minutes, one day barely two minutes before the agitation got out of hand. Sedation adjustments, changing from fentanyl to hydromorphone, from propofol alone to propofol with a benzodiazepine. Yesterday, the addition of a psychiatrist consultation, who added a mood stabiliser. The nurse told him that perhaps with John's PTSD and the possible traumatic brain injury as yet undetermined, maybe this would be the ticket, the key.

The actual acutely agitated periods, Sherlock hadn't seen, but he'd seen the aftereffects a few times, summoned by one of the nurses or techs back to John's bedside as things were beginning to calm. Even then there was elevated heart rate, monitors beeping, ventilator alarming, a distressed John pulling at the restraints, non-directable, skin sweaty, colour flushed, blood pressure alarming while they waited for the sedation to kick back in, settle him down, calm things. Back to sleep, lightly sedated. Another failure, they would tell him along with their summons, though they skirted around that particular word. Maybe tomorrow, they would say, as John's sweaty skin dried, vital signs returning to normal. Another day of nutrition, maybe more healing, that lung expanding with the chest tube and rib fractures. Overall he's improving, they'd said once. His glare should have silenced them all, and one of the nurses had actually backpedaled. One day at a time, you know? she'd said. We'll try again. Don't give up. Sherlock wasn't sure if that last directive was issued at him, or at John, or at them both.

Chest rise, chest fall.

Improving. Sherlock tasted at the word, turned it on its side, trying to be objective. John wasn't dead. Wasn't entirely unresponsive, that much was true. Some of the medications from his more unstable days were no longer needed. But he was no closer to recovering, to meaningful recovery. Sherlock stared hard at John's face, looking for ... he puzzled ... looking for signs of _John_ \- a smile, a smirk, an expression. Nothing. His mouth, unable to close for the thick plastic tube secured to a corner on the velcro holder. He was drooling again, and Sherlock blotted his chin with a tissue. The agitation was understandable - God, really, with tubes in every orifice and the occasional need to be cleaned up in unspeakable ways - even as it was counterproductive. Too sedate, lighten the sedation, too agitated, increase the sedation. Can't breathe, can't follow instructions, can't meet criteria to pull the tube, because he can't be reasoned with. _Repeat ad nauseum._

Footsteps stopped at the doorway, a nurse again, and a respiratory therapist. "It's time. Let's give this a try, then. We'll come get you in a little while then."

Sherlock could feel the anxiety, the fear of leaving John, of another possibility of failure to liberate from the ventilator.

Chest rise, chest fall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Sherlock is ~~sent, banished, evicted, relocated, relegated~~ asked to step out to the waiting room, the next chapter will fill in some of the backstory that got John into this mess in the first place.


	2. You Obviously have a Wrong Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're going to leave Sherlock in the waiting room (for now) and fill in some of the backstory.
> 
> ++
> 
> Sherlock gets the call.

_The artist sits at a work table, brush in hand, pottery on a wheel. The greenware has been prepped - lightly sanded, wiped free of dust. It yearns to become beautiful under the steady, talented ministrations of the poised efforts of the artist._

_Time passes. There is still bright lighting, but the angles and shadows from the window change. Soon, a dish of dirty water, a few paint spattered rags, and an image begins to take shape. A complex design of lines, leaves, twisting branches, and understated fruit grows along vines he's painted on the ceramic bowl. The intricate work is painstakingly slow, and clearly the work of an incredibly skilled, patient craftsman. He sighs, working his hand, the brush, creating and designing and focusing. He sticks with one area even as he is acutely aware of the entirety of the project as it comes to life. He pauses occasionally to pencil in a broad guideline, a hash mark, an outline for future filling and blooming. The flow, he knows, must draw the eye to greater than the sum of each part, the entirety, the full scope._

_It will most certainly be his Opus Maximum._

_Hours pass before he dips his brush more slowly, the last time, sets the final touches for the day to the piece, rinses the tools, and smiles. He will continue tomorrow, and the day after, until the work is finished. He is exhausted with a satisfying sense of accomplishment._

++

The landline rang. Sherlock ignored it.

The landline rang. Sherlock glared at it.

The landline rang, and after the seventh ring, he picked it up. "What."

There was a brief hesitation at the unexpected rudeness, and a female voice spoke. "I'm calling to speak with Sherlock Holmes?"

He was immediately irritated at the timid, question-like inflection at what should have been a confident statement. "And strangely enough, he has answered the number listed under his name, what a shocking, _earth-shattering_ turn of events!"

Complete silence.

"You have ten seconds to state your business." He thought ten was actually generous.

"I'm calling from Euro-Car Rentals here in London. This number was listed as an alternate contact on one of our rentals."

"You obviously have a wrong number. Wrong information." _Idiot._

"It was on the background information for a rental under the name John Watson."

He resisted the urge to suck in a breath or gasp. There were seven reasons he could list immediately for why this contact had been made, and all seven were not favourable. "Go on." For whatever else was the point of the call, she definitely had Sherlock's attention.

++

The fallout from Mary's death, Sherlock's latest relapse and recovery, John's rage, the events at Sherrinford, the Eurus calamity, had been taxing, leaving John and Sherlock a little shell-shocked but coping. They'd tried to manage, solving a few cases early on, with Molly, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and occasionally Mycroft popping by to enjoy Rosie when she visited. But life had moved on for John, and despite their wishes to stay in touch, the cases were seldom convenient - occurring when Rosie was asleep or napping, or in the evenings, or when John was at work - and definitely on occasion, the evolving case was not a safe place for any of them. A few frightening moments at one of the building raids had rattled John's world, and he had begged off a few times afterward. And then a few more times until he sighed and confessed, "I just can't risk it, Sherlock. You understand, yeah?" And Sherlock had understood even as he'd hated it.

It had been one month, two weeks, and a few hours since they'd actually been together in person. When John had finally spoken up. And then, when Sherlock became emboldened and made the request, asked John what he would think about perhaps, moving back in to Baker Street.

He'd wanted, he'd risked it, he'd already cleaned up his life and his lifestyle, he'd gambled that very evening after John had declared a moratorium (tendering his resignation, more like it) on anything dangerous. He'd steeled himself and asked John to move back in - and had bloody lost. "I can't," John had said with a funny catch in his voice. "I want - I just can't."

Sherlock hadn't wanted to hear the rest, steeled himself against that inner voice ('he doesn't want you'), and tried to shrug it off.

The text messages now and again were still faintly friendly, but sparsely intermittent and only a ghosting of what he'd wanted. What he _desired._

Sherlock thought about him daily. His lingering presence in the flat, memories, yearnings - it didn't hurt nearly so much as it had, but well, there it was. He ran his fingertips over John's chair almost every time he walked past it, recalling a happier time, the phrase _I miss him_ almost a mantra that echoed in the fabric as his fingers passed over. And the phone call triggered a small ache, as even the mention of John's name along with the reminder that their relationship had once been close, that they had mattered to each other. The uncomfortable hollow, the _missing him,_ all came flooding right back and rushing over his head.

++

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but this morning we got a message that the vehicle he'd rented from us was involved in an accident. In Scotland."

Sherlock waited only a moment. "Is John all right?"

"We've been unable to reach him." She stuttered minutely before continuing. "Do you have alternate means to locate him? Another number? Perhaps of someone local individual or for the place where he was going?"

Sherlock didn't bother to state that he had no idea John was even there, let alone the other possibilities. With his other hand, he opened his mobile, fired off a text message to John's mobile. It bounced back immediately with a red exclamation point, _undeliverable._ He opened the contact, put it on speaker, and dialed only to receive an automated message, no longer in service. "I don't, but I'll try to find a way."

His next case was obvious: _find John Watson._

"Thank you."

"Where was the vehicle last known to be?" His fingers closed around a biro, tablet, drumming lightly against the items as he shifted protectively into sleuth mode. Compartmentalise, he could do that.

She rattled off a town in Scotland. "He was driving apparently in an area with almost non-existent satellite coverage, not all the time anyway. But when the On-Star notification came back on line, we were notified, and that's why I'm calling you. It's procedure to make contact and notify --"

"When exactly was the vehicle involved in the accident?"

There was a few keyboard clicks, and then a few more. "Late yesterday."

"And you're just notifying me _now_?" He double-checked the time. Idiocy in both human and mechanical forms surrounding Sherlock was apparently more far-reaching than usual. "Is there more information about the accident? How much damage? _Anything?"_

"Only the time of the crash, and that front and side passenger airbags were all deployed." The scraping of the pen to paper was oddly amplified, loud in Sherlock's ear.

Airbags. Dear god, Sherlock finally grasped the serious issue at hand. Not a fender-bender at all. There was an annoying lump in Sherlock's throat. "Emergency vehicles were dispatched?" When she didn't reply immediately, he wanted to reach through the phone. " _You did notify emergency services_."

"That process is generally automatic. This morning our call center _immediately_ forwarded the information to emergency services in the nearest known city. Usually the On-Star instantly tries to contact the vehicle and will automatically notify first responders. There is usually a backup notification for these situations or for when towers are down. Being out of the country, it _should_ work the same. Unless the accident was in a more remote section, and I'm not aware of --" Sherlock tuned out the rest of the excuses, the unacceptable, unknowledgeable non-answer. "Services might not have been available where he was, I'm sorry, but parts of Scotland don't have the coverage, the technology."

Scotland. Sherlock had no idea why John was there. His mum had died years previously, his dad when John was a child, but there was probably still more extended family, and he'd had some schooling there before moving and getting into university, into med school in London. Sherlock wondered about a class reunion or family get together. Or just reconnecting with a group of friends. The notepad in front of him had some random words, the town, and he added the word Harriet with a question mark. And then that name caused him to draw up short as something else slammed to his brain foreground. _Rosie._ "Was there a car seat included with the rental?"

"Oh, I don't know ... let me check." More keyboard noise. "Yes."

"His daughter might have been with him." Sherlock could feel his mouth get dry. "Any indication there was a passenger?"

"I don't have any information yet. As I explained, we're trying." His snort of displeasure was quite audible, and she added, "We're working on it."

"And yet, he left _this_ number..." He wasn't about to admit that he didn't even know John was traveling.

"Well, he didn't with this particular rental actually. And it's optional for returning customers in good standing. But when this happened and we couldn't reach him, I checked a previous rental application form. This number, along with your name, was in our records." Sherlock couldn't remember the last time John had needed to rent a vehicle. He'd only owned one briefly with Mary, but now like most, used public transportation. Cheaper, less hassle, less traffic to navigate.

He closed his eyes, picturing Rosie's happy smile and her chortle and her overalls and seeing her running and her light brown curls. Best not assume anything ahead of the facts. "Okay. I'm going to see what I can find out. You have nothing else, at all, anything?"

"Not at this time. The local office has dispatched a car, will try to locate the vehicle, and ..."

The words came breathily out before he could stop them. _"The hell with your vehicle."_ Sherlock heaved a sigh, and then could almost hear John's shock at the very atypically uttered profanity, the disapproval and resultant chastisement in his head. "Tracking down _John_ is far more important."

"Of course, I understand, sir, and I'll be in touch if there's any news on our end."

Sherlock rattled off his mobile number rather than the home line. She was still in the middle of her scripted end-of-call blatherings when he disconnected.

The urgency that consumed him felt like fire, the frustration of not knowing. It felt very much like this, and the voice, John's voice in his head, _'timing, Sherlock,'_ and everything else, was _too bloody late._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to online sources, On-Star is available in select European countries and can do everything this chapter claims including make contact with the vehicle and automatically alert emergency services. When the satellites are down, or the system is otherwise out of range, well ... that's another problem.


	3. Calm Yourself, Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a call of his own. Mycroft figures out where John is and some brief details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title will be a companion to future chapter ... yup, you guessed it, Calm Yourself, John.
> 
> More backstory - John is in a trauma unit, Sherlock is in the waiting room still. They are waiting for us to catch up.

_The artist carries the piece to the window for better light and some fresh air away from the pungent fumes as he paints. The complexity of the telescoping vine, the integration of the leaves, and the shading of the green hues will be better suited with improved visibility, different perspective, and broad, natural lighting. He rolls up his sleeves, tucking in the cuff, feeling already the excitement of progress. The bowl practically shimmers with excellence, with quality, with an arrogance of unparalleled workmanship. Inanimate has become animate._

_The piece has a temperament and personality, and he smiles fondly as he considers that for this piece, the transformation has happened earlier than usual. He smiles as he speaks quietly to the audio system. "Resume symphonic playlist," he says, and the low sounds of a cello begin, joined with simple tones soon to swell into a classical favourite of his. The sounds, the notes, the story behind the composer seem to empower him, allow for greater skill, heightened creativity, more determination, longer endurance._

_To a knowledgeable eye, the music will be etched into the foundation and the structure of the finished work, a network from his ears, the synapse of neurons, transmitted along through his fingertips, bristles, to paint._

_Listen with your eyes. Even if no one else ever detects the music, he will still be aware of the integration, the influence._

_Hours later, he dips his brush a final time, stretches out the cramps in his shoulders for the umpteenth time, and carries the bowl gingerly so it can continue to set, to dry, to cure, out of drafts. Another day, and it will be that much closer to completion._

_Taking a step back, he stares at it, studying angles and perspectives. And smiles._

_~~_

Sherlock was already kilometres ahead in his mind as he dialed Mycroft's number.

_Dialed._

The significance wasn't lost on him - people seldom ever actually rang anymore unless it was urgent - a real emergency - and apparently neither was that fact lost on Mycroft.

"I'm stepping out of a meeting, brother mine," he spoke in a stage whisper as he answered the call. "I do trust," he continued quietly and Sherlock could hear a background door snick shut, "that this is something you consider dreadfully important."

"John's been in a car wreck."

"I see." Mycroft glanced through the privacy glass of the board room of the meeting he'd just stepped out of, which had been in truth painfully boring. "What does that have to do with me?"

"He’s in Scotland. Perhaps with Rosie. There's no additional information. No location, no hospital. He could already be ..." Sherlock could not bring himself to say the word. " _They_ could..." Again he did not speak the worst fear rattling in his brain.

"Have you called any of the hospitals?"

"I'm calling _you first_. Use your bloody resources." His mind went to the video in his not too distant past. The plea:  _Save John Watson._ "The car rental company notified me, auto crash detection. John'd listed me on a previous rental apparently as an alternate contact."

"I will see what I can find out."

"Arrange me a flight there, while you're at it. Closest city to the his last known location is going to be Edinburgh. And a driver would be nice."

"You realise this will take some time." Mycroft could see the meeting attendees milling about, refilling their coffee, their silhouettes blurry and pixelated against the lighting. "And do try to stay calm. There is nothing gained by letting yourself get carried away by sentiment."

"Make sure I have wi-fi on the airplane." Sherlock disconnected before Mycroft could fuss again. Fussing time would be better spent taking care of more urgent matters.

++

The flight information arrived in a text message eleven minutes later from an unknown number, presumably a mobile of one of Mycroft's assistants. By that time Sherlock had already called two hospitals that seemed logical, none of whom had any records of a mid-forties accident victim named John Watson. A seldom-used, small carry-on suitcase held random clothing that he barely paid attention to as he threw it in. He gathered his laptop, charging equipment, toothbrush, and was just about to go inform Mrs. Hudson of his abrupt departure when his mobile buzzed again with his gate and seat information, and that a driver was out front. Mobile still in hand, he cut off Mrs. Hudson from her distress - useless, nonproductive, not helpful - and was furious at Mycroft's driver for taking eight seconds to get from the back of the car, where he'd held the door, to his place behind the wheel.

He'd called another two hospitals, yelled at an undeterminable number of other motorists, and tried to recall Harry Watson’s last update. He spoke sharply to the driver a few times regarding his choice of routes and in response the driver wordlessly raised the privacy glass between the front and rear sections of the vehicle. He was ready to pound on the dividing glass again to fuss at the car to drive faster when his mobile buzzed.

Finally, Mycroft.

_Ringing. Again._

Reflexively, he cringed a little on the inside as he answered. Probably not a good sign.

++

"Stop hassling my driver, Sherlock." Mycroft's delivery was curt, monotone. "Cease, immediately."

"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock seethed.

"I mean it. Be glad I'm not demanding an apology."

"Piss off." With a concerted effort, he forced his jaws to relax, to comply, to demonstrate his agreement. "Fine." Sherlock couldn't wait any longer. "Tell me."

"Here's what we know. Hit by an oncoming out of control vehicle that seems to have crossed into his lane, the other driver killed instantly on impact. Car seat was empty at the time and no passenger seemed to be ejected from the vehicle at impact. He was the sole occupant of the car, best it can be determined.”

Sherlock tried not to breathe too loudly, afraid of missing something important, and his fingers gripped his mobile tightly.

"Multiple injuries, pneumothorax - that's a collapsed lung, Sherlock --"

 _"I know that."_ The words came out tightly through gritted teeth.

"Head injury of undetermined severity. Comatose but breathing at the scene."

"And now?"

There was a sigh. "Patience, Sherlock." Through the connection, Sherlock could hear someone in the background and imagined Mycroft intentionally delaying, making him wait just because he could, pinching the bridge of his nose with a bloody smirk on his face, waiting until Sherlock was even more desperate. Before he could complain, however, Mycroft continued. "Information is not instantly available. He has been admitted to the trauma unit in critical condition."

”Is he ...?”

”Calm yourself, Sherlock.”

His teeth clenched, and he blinked a few times to try exactly that. A hard swallow and he found his voice again. "What hospital?"

Mycroft told him. "I'll have a chauffeur at the airport when you land to escort you there. One of my staff has been in touch with hospital administration to add you to his record as a secondary next of kin."

"Where is Rosie?"

"I don't know yet. When there is news, I will notify you." Sherlock could hear an incoming text notification on Mycroft's phone. "Do try not to lose your head."

With more feeling this time, he snarled, "Piss off." Inside his head, Sherlock could hear John's voice again, fussing at him not to burn a bridge more than necessary and acknowledged that Mycroft did have his uses and that this was not yet over. ' _Make nice_ ,' he heard in John's somewhat teasing but insistent logical manner. Gruffly, he added in a low tone, "Thanks for letting me know."

There was a hesitation on the line, and Mycroft murmured, "Indeed."


	4. Unlocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds John and manages to also locate Rosie. Sigh of relief!

_The artist stretches his arms up over his head, feeling the tingling as blood flow shifts and changes, circulation restored. There is a spasming of both wrists as he does so, and he recognises the need for frequent breaks to prevent carpal tunnel, the nerve impingement of the wrists caused by repetitive actions. Because he certainly has been doing that the past few days, and will continue to do so regardless. The fingers of his dominant hand cramp again, and he wriggles then shakes them. A few shoulder rolls, eyes closed, followed by careful stretching of his neck, reversing directions then, and he feels better. Refreshed._

_The bowl is coming along nicely. Most of the vine is done, the leaves filling in exactly as he's envisioned them. the shades of green ranging from pale lime to dark forest with many in between hues, some he customises and blends, others are squeezed that way from the tube. By the end of today, he is fairly confident, the largest parts will be completed._

_Tomorrow, the finishing touches will begin, the painstaking details that will elevate the porcelain from excellent to pristine and magnificent. But today, there is still work to be done._

_He daubs and squeezes his tubes of paints with a practiced flourish, taking a hint of fern and placing it next to seafoam mist. A flat brush when faintly wiggled joins the two colours, and a new broadleaf with gradient ombre emerges._

_He smiles, pleased._

_From the pedestal, the pottery seems to vibrate, and faintly, the artist can hear it sing. The artist pauses a few moments, completely attuned, studying the bowl and listening, enjoying the strains of the sweet melody and subtle harmonies of the song. Beautiful. Otherworldly. It hints of classical works, something ancient and lovely and altogether beautiful and sad at the same time, and in the background, he gets the impression of the rushing undertones of an undisturbed natural waterfall._

_He smiles broader, peaceful. It is truly lovely._

++

Even as he thought, this has to be a mistake, he knew that it was not.

He'd heard Mycroft say 'trauma unit' and 'critical condition,' but he was unprepared for the first glimpse of John. It was overwhelming. It was unbelievable, fictional. It was to the point where Sherlock had to wall off his initial responses in order not to implode or explode or otherwise panic at the sight. John needed him to be strong, to help, to be rational - not to turn on his heel in denial and devastation and storm out of the building as if convinced that this could not possibly be John Watson.

Because Sherlock had seen enough of past John to also know that this was John's hair, his build, his body habitus, his profile. And this was very definitely John Watson despite the damage. Despite the medical entrapments. It was John, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

A nurse appeared at his side before he'd barely got one foot inside the doorway. "Excuse me? Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see John Watson." He schooled his features, he hoped, and managed not to yell. Or stare. "How's he doing?"

"Are you family?"

"Not exactly." Sherlock introduced himself. "But if you'll check your records, I was added to his next of kin listing."

"Okay," she said. "Well, if you give me a moment to check the computer, I'll be glad to talk to you." She was back in a few moments. "I'm glad you're here. Being that he's from out of town, and this critical, I mean." They stepped inside the room to the bedside. John had looked pretty awful from the doorway; up close, it wasn't better, and Sherlock couldn't help the sharp intake as he approached. "Didn't anybody warn you about the tubes, and his condition?"

"Obviously not." Even as he wanted to look away, he could not. He wanted to touch, to feel warm skin, to reassure himself that this was John but was hesitant with the injuries and the stillness and the equipment.

Her eyes narrowed a little at his snippy tone, her body language quite a bit more closed and he realised the depth of his mistake. He needed the nurses very much on his side or none of this was going to be pleasant. And more, he needed them quite attentive and focused on the patient - he had no business even remotely annoying them enough to even think of compromising that particular detail.

"I'm sorry," he added with a touch of contrition, hoping that she would - correctly - blame it on the upset of seeing him. "I just --"

"I know, it's quite a shock if you weren't prepared. We try to meet --" There were several alarms that sound right then, monitoring equipment that was connected to John, and she crossed quite assuredly to John's side, silenced a few alarms, and watched him. Her hand touched John's shoulder, soothing, gently, and when she spoke again, leaning closer to John’s ear, her words were quite soft. "It's okay, you're doing okay." To Sherlock she added, "His heart rate's up a little, we should talk in the hall in case the noise or us being here is contributing. Upsetting him."

"Fine," Sherlock agreed. "And I will be wanting an update, but," he was quick to insist on what he needed before leaving John's side, "I have need of his mobile, first. There is the matter of --" The nurse waited expectantly, and Sherlock finished the sentence quietly, "--  _his daughter."_

"In here," the nurse said quietly, putting her hand on the closet door along one wall. "It's all been listed in and logged, his belongings, so if you're taking something with you, I need to know."

The meager bag of belongings had only shoes, a jacket, wallet, and mobile which was sporting a spidery crack across the middle of it. "This is it? No clothes?" and then he realised and added an exhaled, 'oh' as the nurse nodded.

"Probably cut off. Or bloody," the nurse reminded him, her voice gentle and solemn.

"Hopefully it was at least one of his uglier jumpers. No great loss, if it was." Sherlock heard behind him a faintly surprised snicker at his comment as he set John's things back in the closet except the mobile. It did not power on. He considered the device a moment longer. "Is there a charging cord I could borrow, perhaps?"

"We have one, I'll be right back with it." Her voice was still quiet, and on soft steps she returned to hand it to him. She peered closely at the mobile. "Here’s hoping, anyway," she whispered, brushing her hand over the crack in the screen.

"I'll leave that here, then, and you can fill me in on his ... condition?" Sherlock knew if he didn't occupy his mind he would be staring at John's face or at the phone screen, hoping for spontaneous resurrection, healing, for both objects of his projected attention.

For a few minutes then, in the hallway, the nurse explained the circumstances of admission. "Discovered by a passing motorist, not sure how much time had gone by. Brought to the A&E, intubated for airway protection. Trauma scan. C-spine was cleared, thankfully." She hesitated as Sherlock shuffled on his feet, took a step awkwardly as if suddenly more upset. "So yes, no neck injury that we can tell. CT of the head showed minimal swelling, which sounds bad but is actually more promising than if severe oedema had been present on the initial scan." She hesitated to see if Sherlock was keeping up, and he nodded so she kept on, speaking quickly and confidently. "Lots of contusions as you see, rib fractures caused damage to the lung, so there's a chest tube to keep the lung inflated." She gestured to her own body, pointing to the clavicle area, "Drained only air not blood which is I suppose better, somewhat. Fractured an arm, just splinted for now. Lot of soft tissue injury on both feet, which we can see when someone stomps hard on the clutch and the brakes."

Sherlock nodded, understanding that. "With head-on impact, of course."

"Right, so, well, you'll see the swelling." She glanced over into the room again. "Agitated at some point in A&E, too, right now he's on a narcotic infusion for pain as well as a sedating medication for tube tolerance. Wrist restraints to keep him from pulling out the breathing tube if he were to awaken suddenly."

"Even with the medication?"

"It's reflex. He's only been lightened up once so far, and wasn't exactly cooperative. Ended up needing quite a bit more medication. Agitation's counterproductive with a head injury at this stage, and well, we don't want him to hurt himself worse."

"This could get worse?"

She looked at him hard, sizing him up apparently given the directness of the question and wondering if he really wanted a truthful answer. "He's in a bad way, you can see that. So sedated is good, to try to minimise the stress he's already experiencing."

"You didn't answer the question."

The eye contact didn't waver. "Yes, it could definitely get worse." She gestured toward John’s bed and let her hand find Sherlock’s upper arm, and backpedaled a little. “We hope it won’t of course. The plan now is let him recover from the injuries, head injury particularly. We watch for increasing cerebral oedema, prevent complications, support everything else. And we wait.”

It hit him hard then, that it was all true, that John could be in peril. Seeing him, hearing these ominous words, drove it home and he could feel a sudden rush of lightheadedness.

The nurse’s hand dug in. “Do you need to sit down?” He blinked, pulled his arm out of her grasp. More kindness and attention was throwing him off balance. “Keep in mind, he’s young. He’s moving all extremities, there’s no spinal cord injury. And, despite all the injury and stuff on him, there’s lots of reasons to be hopeful.”

Sherlock nodded, once, glancing back at John's body that lay unmoving. "He would hate everything about this."

There was a bit of commotion from another area, and the nurse excused herself after checking thoroughly John's condition again from the monitors to the IV pumps, and a careful assessment of his body, quickly from head on down. "I'll be back shortly. Try to let him mostly alone, yeah? Make yourself comfortable." She glanced at him. "You'll have more questions, I'm sure."

"Yes."

"I'll see if the intensivist can come talk to you too. I think they were wanting to review his medical history, make sure we had it all." She disappeared quickly, and into another room where there was a small flurry of activity, a patient acting up, medical crisis unfolding on apparently a new patient. Sherlock wondered idly if the same urgency had surrounded John when he'd first come to this unit, and realised that it probably had.

Sherlock turned to John's mobile with a bit of fear. If charging it didn't work, he would have a harder time getting information, locating Rosie. Mycroft, so far, hadn't had any luck either. He touched the screen just once, and a red image of a battery showed up.

He heaved a brief sigh of relief. _Thank god._

Ignoring the mobile for a moment, knowing it was too soon to go searching through it, he scanned the room. Holding his attention first was the complicated, multi-colour monitor display, the different waveforms and patterns, then the ventilator and the mechanics of the pressurised oxygen and compressed air valves. He read the labels on the IV pumps and bags. When the mobile read ten percent, he woke it up again.

Game time.

He stared at the lock screen, tried one time to get in using John's birthdate. The lock screen shook, jiggling side to side and did not open.  _Touch ID or Enter Passcode._ This made him oddly pleased that John had finally, as Sherlock'd more than once recommended, changed his bloody password to something that was actually secure.

There were any number of other dates he considered, but opted for efficiency to do something else, and disconnected the charging cable. He held the mobile carefully, and brought it to John's bedside. John was left handed, so he placed John's left thumb over the home button, the fingerprint sensor.

The desktop flickered and appeared. There was an odd lump of extreme relief in Sherlock's throat that he disregarded even as he told himself the moisture in his eyes was due to dry hospital air. Utmost in his mind: _Hang in there, Rosie. I will figure this out, and then I'm coming._

He opened the text messages. Most of them were benign notifications, a few from family, a couple of bank reminders. The one from him just a few hours ago, unread of course.

Checking recent calls then, he was rewarded. The most recent log, a few calls made and received to one particular contact identified only as Aunt Olivia. It was a Scotland-based number.

He took John's mobile from the room, knowing that the nurse's admonition to protect John from disturbances demanded it, and went back to the family waiting area, where he took a deep breath and dialed.

"John! Finally! Did you have a good time with your classmates? I've been expecting you long before now, though Rosie's doing splendidly! Why, such a cutie-pie, she just --"

Though he wanted to ask about Rosie, to take a moment to be thoroughly relieved she was there and doing well, he couldn’t. "This isn't John." Sherlock could hear a soft gasp of surprise, and could make out either a musical toy or the telly in the background. "There's been an accident."

"Oh dear me, is he all right?" The voice was kind but obviously had no idea as to the severity. "I can bring Rosie to him then, if the car's not drive-able."

If only. Sherlock's eyes cut to the doorway of the trauma unit. "This is Sherlock Holmes, John's former flatmate from London. He's ... a bit injured, here in the hospital." He wondered how much more to say. "I need to make some arrangements for Rosie."

"Well, that would be fine, but I'm leaving first thing in the morning on holiday." She sounded distraught. "John knew I had to go." There was muttering, then, something about not being able to cancel plans and hoping John was going to be all right.

Although Sherlock wanted to lambaste her for her complaints about John's very inconvenient timing of the accident and his traumatic injuries, he pressed past the urge. "I'll come get her, then. Soon as I can safely leave John. I'll be needing your address." He glanced at the mobile again for the time. Visiting hours were posted for the trauma unit until eight. "It may be a little bit until I can get to you."

"That's fine." And she rattled off her address. "Will John be all right?" she asked again, quieter, apparently having picked up on the severity of the situation from Sherlock.

"I hope so," Sherlock told her. "He's pretty roughed up." They finalised arrangements, and when they disconnected, Sherlock rang Mycroft again.

Mycroft answered on the first ring. “Tell me.”

"John's in a bad way. And I’ll be on my way to secure Rosie shortly. But I'm going to need a highly qualified, flexible nanny close by. _Immediately."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because the pottery in the beginning seemed to want to sing to us, here is the piece: 
> 
> [Song of the Ood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UXEdzgMvzcA)
> 
> ++
> 
> Is it a crime to unlock someone's phone without their consent? The short answer is yes, but we're going to view this as extenuating circumstances.


	5. Light Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's get that arm fracture stabilised.

_The artist considers the bowl. It is completely filled in with the basic images, the painted greenery. The balance is pleasing, and he views it from all sides to get a feel for where the bowl seems to be wanting his attention._

_There are, he admits, a few places that are good but want to be excellent. The piece wants more, needs more, and the artist will willingly, gladly oblige._

_The lighting is good, conducive, and the paint is completely dry and ready now._

_He opens a small tube of limited edition, rather expensive, high quality gold paint. There is real gold in it, and he has a few tinctures of other shades to lighten it, or darken it, add depth and textures, to customise these next effects._

_There are small indents on the palette, and he draws over a wheeled stool, adjusts the height, takes a deep breath, and centers his mind.. The studio seems to hush, breathlessly waiting as the artist picks up the brush. This is the moment where he, and the work, will ultimately shine._

++

For all Sherlock's trepidation about picking up Rosie, she turned to stare at him, her wide, dark blue Watson eyes recognised him right off, the association a good one.

As John had in the very beginning, that day at Bart’s, there was trust and no fear. Trusting eyes of a Watson. She trusted him.

She grinned at him, and rushed over. He scooped her up, chatting a bit with Aunt Olivia and including Rosie, talking about her day and that it was good to see her. He did not mention her daddy.

"You'll let me know how John's doing? Please tell him to call me, maybe tomorrow, so I can ..." He tuned her out, noticing that Rosie seemed to be keeping an eye on the car from his arms, probably wondering where John was and expecting him as well. "... and I have her bag all packed."

A few quick arrangements with the driver - Uber this time - who waited while he disengaged from John's relative, and he and Rosie (safely in a car seat of course) were dropped off at John's hotel. On his phone, John had left a ridiculously easy email trail that anyone could have followed, hotel address and confirmation being one of them.

A quick explanation to the desk clerk and Sherlock producing the check-in email from John's phone, and he, Rosie and a couple of bags found themselves in John's rooms. Again, fortunately, she did not seem too alarmed, though he still had a bit of fear that she was going to have a meltdown when she realised John wasn't there, either. As it was, she kept a wary eye on him while she wandered about a bit, getting reacquainted with the things John had packed for her, a few toys, a book. She finally blinked a few times as if in slow motion, rubbed at her eyes as Sherlock remembered John doing when he was exhausted, and Sherlock wondered about putting her to bed. The room, thankfully, did have a small bump-out ensuite with table, chair, and Rosie's cot. Though it was small, Rosie was familiar with it, and for this reason alone, Sherlock did not even think about upgrading or moving to something bigger. It would suffice, and was definitely in her best interest to stay put.

Having watched John prepare Rosie for bedtime or a nap a few times, though not that recently, he had a vague idea and drew cues from the child herself and managed a fresh nappy (thanks to a small amount of careful research on YouTube), pyjamas, a small snack from the room, and while she was eating that, he unpacked her bag from Aunt Olivia and found a list of bedtime instructions. Thank god, he thought, seeing John's familiar handwriting explain the non-negotiable routine and his caveat that deviation from the list could have devastating results. There was a smiley face, but Sherlock took the warning to heart.

So far so good, and he managed to stumble through the rest of it - brushing her teeth, two books provided (and in the proper order - _seriously, John, your daughter is holding you hostage for bedtime_ ), and then a particular blanket, stuffed toy, and nightlight.

Once she was tucked in bed, he stared a bit at the directions surrounding the care and keeping of Rosie. John's handwriting gave him pause, and he knew he considered it a little longingly to be sure, imagining him crafting instructions, considering Rosie's needs, his concentration. His steady hand had made the list, providing best he could and, at the time he'd written it, he would have had no idea that eventually Sherlock would be not only holding it, but caring for his daughter. Nor that he would be in a trauma unit, injured so seriously. Sherlock's fingertips brushed over the words as he laid the paper aside.

Deliberately turning his thoughts elsewhere (sort of, anyway, before his musings took him somewhere both unrequited and frustrating), he reconsulted his mobile to find that Mycroft had indeed come through with his latest request. A suitable nanny had been vetted, and his brother’d already interviewed her by phone, explained the situation. She would be arriving first thing in the morning once Sherlock provided the address which he took care of immediately. Shortly after, Mycroft confirmed text receipt, included contact information for the nanny, and then strongly suggested that Sherlock treat her well, and pay close attention to get that particular endeavor off on the right foot. _In other words, behave,_ Mycroft had admonished, reminding him that he needed her far more than she needed the job.

As for himself, he moved stealthily about, getting used to the sounds of another person breathing and settling in the room with him. A quick ring to the trauma unit for an update ("no change") and he too finally took off his shoes, exchanged clothing for sleep pants and a tee, and settled down in the bed that John had slept in. It was an odd realisation, how familiar even the very scent of John was as he inhaled deeply into the sheets, the pillow. John's presence, the lingering reminder, was sweetly comforting.

++

They'd managed a day and then another, the nanny there with Rosie all day, but certainly not spending every hour in the small rooms all that much (but for napping and mealtimes) but out and about with her. Sherlock spent the days at John's bedside, arriving back from the hospital in time to put Rosie to bed. Little progress, little change, certainly no signs one way or the other as to how and when this would end. John - restless, interspersed with John - sedated. Doctor updates, nurse updates, respiratory therapy, chest tube evaluation, X-rays, lab work. Medication changes, nutrition, plans for managing John's care while they all waited for the swelling to go down, for healing to begin, for him to be an appropriate candidate for breathing without assistance of the machinery.

Rosie in the evening was everything Sherlock needed after so little positive encouragement and the lack of progress at the hospital throughout the day. Pudgy little arms about his neck, a fleece blanket as he read to her, the little interactions, words spoken and answered. She clung a bit one evening, and though it was on John's instruction sheet not to do so, he rubbed her back while she nestled in his arms until she grew heavy, falling almost asleep on him. It was just the security he needed, thinking about John, wishing for a bit of physical contact and grateful for the connection and snuggling warmth of his daughter. Her eyes flickered open as he settled her in the cot, and his hand traced soft and ever-so-light circles on her back until her eyes were heavy again.

He tried not to think about the scent of John in the bed lulling him to sleep, but it was there none-the-less. The card from housekeeping on the sheets that requested a linen change he kept face down, so that it still read No change required today. He would give in eventually, but he wasn't ready yet. Perhaps, he thought, he would keep the pillowcase as something tangible and comforting, familiar. His version of Rosie's security blanket.

Mornings for the most part were also uneventful and rather smooth so far, getting Rosie up, waiting for the nanny, to do it all again. The nanny had been a godsend, doing light shopping for easy food, and some purchases for Rosie and taking care of her basic needs, taking her places, playing and entertaining, and thankfully unafraid of the longer hours. Despite the warnings from Mycroft, there was one mouthy incident from him directed at the nanny, an undeserved moment where he vented his frustration over the ridiculous hotel suite and the unsuitability of the situation overall. She had raised one eyebrow at him, pointed at him with her index finger sharply, and uttered, "That'll be quite enough, _Master Sherlock_." The key words, the title she'd used, the deliberate warning was obviously ammunition from his brother and quite enough to get him to back down. It was a reminder of the discipline imposed on him when there'd been childhood misbehaving with household staff. And quite effective. He'd brusquely apologised, knowing there was colour about his face, and that was that. Smooth sailing since. She even smiled at him with more than tolerance - fondness, or even something akin to friendship.

The mobile rang with an incoming call from the generic hospital number on his third morning in Scotland. Sherlock snatched it up on the first ring. Given the time - nine am - probably an update, routine, hopefully nothing terrible. He handed Rosie another triangle of honey toast as he answered. John's hotel rooms had become a small efficiency, all of Rosie's things, simple snacks and staples. He'd extended their check-out date and appreciated that at least this was home base for now.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Snyder here, John's intensivist. We spoke yesterday." Sherlock made a humming noise, not looking to delay the point of the call. "We'll be taking John to the surgery suite today, the orthopedist thinks it's time to take care of the arm fractures. Sherlock was almost immediately nauseous at the thought. “Hopefully it will be a closed reduction rather than open, but they're prepared either way."

"I can be there in ... under an hour." The nanny was due to arrive shortly, and with travel, he thought it would be sooner, actually. "At the outside."

"It probably won't be until early to mid afternoon. Tube feedings got shut off at midnight, and he's got a stable airway, so while he's still on the ventilator, we all feel this is actually the safest time for him to get whatever anaesthesia is needed, sedation, pain medications."

"I take it you were able to reach his sister Harriet to get consent?"

"She gave consent by phone, yes." Sherlock'd been in touch a few times, brief updates, and strongly suspected that Harry was in all likelihood drinking again, bingeing. He would not specifically get in the middle of that unless needed. Right now, he needed her for the legalities only. But he watched her from the distance to make sure nothing was awry.

"Okay."

"When you get here, let the nurses know, and I'll stop by to say hello again. After the procedure is completed, the surgeon will update you if you're here."

Oh, I'll be there, Sherlock didn't say. "Does this delay his weaning?" John's hurdles were still many, and this seemed the most critical one. There would, of course, be many more after that, but Sherlock kept hearing from almost every person involved that the presence of the ventilator would have to be addressed first.

"I think we'll probably hold off today, see how he does later, and start another wean first thing tomorrow. If he's able."

"All right, I suppose that makes sense." Rosie was watching Sherlock, and he smiled at her again. She grinned back at him, showing her front teeth and clacking them together. Then making another face and a sound toward the toast in her hand. "Any change other than that?"

"Not really. Mild fever overnight, but agitated when he lightens. Still not really following commands." He had a few more questions, vague simple ones, which were nicely answered.

Apparently though, someone was feeling left out of the conversation. With a quick shriek, Rosie threw the toast on the floor, then decided it must’ve been lonely, sent the sippy cup down after it. And then anything within her reach. Sherlock wryly wondered to himself that apparently Watson's weren't big on rules, and in general liked to do their own thing. Following commands had never been John's strong suit either - but he didn't speak that to the doctor. They exchanged benign pleasantries and disconnected.

The nanny arrived promptly with a borrowed push chair, and carrying a bag of some goodies, books, toys, and a new puzzle. Sherlock updated her on Rosie's latest:  slept eight hours, one wet nappy so far, no bath yet, ate breakfast. At that point of the hand-off, they both looked at the floor and chuckled at how much she actually might not have eaten. She informed him of her plans for the day - playtime in the bath, get dressed, walk to a local park, a local child's toy shoppe later. With a smile, she assured him she would update regularly or whenever he wanted or needed. "So you run along, then, hear? No worryin' about us today. We're planning a grand day!" She smiled at Rosie and began to straighten up, washing Rosie's sticky face.

It was a relief, Sherlock knew, to have Rosie in such capable hands.

It left him free to worry about John. Because certainly, there was enough to occupy him on that front.

++

The room in the trauma unit was too familiar, with John turned to one side, a foam wedge behind him, wrists still restrained (one splinted, one not), monitored from head to toe. Sherlock could get a feeling that today nothing was changing. The flashing symbols on the ventilator were similar to yesterdays, but John's heart rate was a bit higher, his colour a little more flushed.

The intensivist arrived with a small update, too. "So since we talked, seems his fever's on the rise, well, as I said, it's been low grade earlier but it's gone up since then. He'll still go to the surgery suite, but we've recultured everything looking for a new infectious process."

"What's causing it?" Sherlock posed.

“If I had to guess, he’s probably got a touch of pneumonia.” He shrugged with a resigned smile and gestured at John. "But actually, the fever could be from, well, you name it. Any number of possible sources. Blood stream infection, from one of the many IV lines he's had. Like I said already, pneumonia. The chest tube. Being on a ventilator, the endotracheal tube. The urinary catheter. One of the many suture sites. Something new entirely."

"Common, then?"

"Most trauma patients do run a fever along the course of their recovery, and something like 70% of them never have a specific source identified. The simple process of inflammation or brain injury can account for some of it." He consulted his notes. "He's what, over 72 hours from mechanism of injury. Early fevers are actually worse, so you needn't worry overmuch."

But this is John, Sherlock wanted to say, I'm worried about _all of it, and you should be too,_ but didn't. "Doesn't taking him to surgery put him at higher risk for post-operative infection?" Sherlock frowned. "The pins and such are already a foreign body being introduced."

"It's always a consideration. We have broad-spectrum antibiotics on board, and he'll get an extra dose within an hour of what we call cut time, when the incision is made if the orthopaedic surgeon even needs to, again hoping for a closed procedure. But we all agree that this is the best plan for him. And safe. The schedule freed up, so they'll be here probably late morning to collect him for the operating room." He smiled in an attempt to be reassuring. "Fever's not uncommon. Broken bones, tubes and lines, any little thing, actually, can trigger a spike. But the rest is encouraging. Sometimes you have to look at the current situation and see, well if not progress, at least not a setback."

Sherlock nodded, processing, or trying to anyway.

”How are you holding up?”

I am irrelevant, was Sherlock’s first response, but what came out of his mouth was, “As good as can be expected.”

The morning passed as the others had, medications, care, treatments, waiting. A photo update from the nanny, one of Rosie on a swing.

Waiting. Watching the clock. Listening for them coming to take John. Hearing each ring of the phone at the desk and wondering if that was the call. More waiting.

So much bloody waiting. Finally, the OR team arrived - technician, nurse, anaesthetist, respiratory therapist - and another flurry of activity and Sherlock brushed up against the side rail as the bed was being steered by. “I’ll be here waiting for you,” he whispered, his hand on John’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe.”

And then he was past, and John's room was empty. Eerily empty. They'd assured him it would be a couple of hours until he returned, so he texted the nanny to offer her a break. In response, she texted him another photo of Rosie at the park, playing in a sandbox this time. Her words were quite reassuring, something along the lines of we're fine, and she'll be heading back for lunch and then her afternoon nap shortly.

Sherlock eased into the tall-backed chair in John's empty room and closed his eyes.

It seemed only several minutes had passed before John's nurse spoke to him. "Mr. Holmes?"

He opened his eyes immediately, sat up, alarmed. He’d breathed the word, “John?” before he was even processing the situation.

Quickly, she tried to reassure him. "No, no, everything's okay. Relax, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you awake. The scrub nurse from John's OR called, it’s going well. Closed reduction. They’re waiting on another X-ray, but they want to know if John would have a preference on the colour of the cast they'll be applying in a little bit."

"Shouldn't they be paying more attention to, I don't know, _monitoring John_ than worrying about something so ridiculously trivial?"

The nurse smiled fondly. "I know you're worried about him. He'll be okay."

Though his first instinct was to argue and he tried to squelch down the retort, the snippy response that wanted to be spoken, he could feel something unhinge inside, and he couldn't hold in the words and unleashed his tongue. "You don't know that. There are no guarantees he'll recover." He toyed with the idea of curling up in the chair with his back to this snip of a nurse, this intrusive, harebrained person asking about something so shallow and minor - cast colour for gods sake - that Sherlock couldn't stop the bark of laughter. John's voice again, softly in his head, _Stop it, just stop it._

She leaned a hip against the counter, watching him. "No, you're right, no guarantees. But he's young and healthy, and we see lots and lots of patients come through here. And end up doing remarkably well."

”I just can’t...” and he could hear the waver, the quiver, so he stopped. “He’s ...”

”I know. This is a terrible place, the waiting.” Her voice was so gentle, sympathetic, and unrushed. “Have you two been together a long time?” Sherlock bolted up taller again, blinked, and she immediately knew she’s struck a nerve. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Never mind me ...”

“No, it’s ... Oh, we’re not, not exactly, we ...” Another hesitation. “Six years, going on seven, I’ve known him, but ...” For some reason, he seemed to want to say more, and despite one level of his consciousness urging _shut-up-shut-up-shut-up_ , he added, “I never told him, it never seemed the right time, to ...” He pursed his lips, determined to say no more.

”Oh, I see,” she said but of course she didn’t, and Sherlock was already wishing he could time slide back, take the words away, speak nothing. “Maybe you’ll take that chance next time ...” Her smile was a little bit sad but still kind and her eyes sparkled a little at him. "I have a lot of hope that he's going to recover, never a doubt."

He wanted to respond, to clarify things, but the lump in his throat seemed to imply that his voice would wobble - unacceptable - and so he settled on brushing a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes much like Rosie when she was getting sleepy. He was just tired, which, in light of all the waiting and sitting and watching, seemed ludicrous given the energy not expended on sedentary activities.

"It just takes time." She spoke in a very quiet voice, again, reassuringly. "Can I do anything for you?"

Embarrassed at his outburst, his uncharacteristic confession, he shook his head, then stood up and stalked to the window next to the bed, looking out but not seeing the view from the room. With his back to the nurse, he worked a swallow before speaking. "Light blue." The words come out in part as an apology as well. "Please."

"Oh, I like that. To match his eyes. Good choice." He heard steps behind him, the nurse, straightening up the room a little, approaching him. She rested her hand lightly against Sherlock's arm without offering any other trite phrases or false reassurances. "I'll just go tell them." Her warm touch, light and steady, seemed to convey all kinds of support and compassion.

Sherlock glanced down once the room was empty, as the view out the window was blurring and fading a bit given the extra moisture in his own eyes. The nurse had managed to slide a freshly opened box of tissues on the sill right in front of him.

He was still standing there later, when the travel entourage arrived with John fresh from the post anaesthesia unit. Same breathing tube, ventilator, IV lines, bruises, and his closed eyes and now quite sedated body. His right lower arm, however, smartly encased in a powder blue cast from just below his elbow to his knuckles.

The nurse arrived to help settle John in, reconnect the monitoring equipment, evaluate his condition. She smiled warmly at Sherlock, eyes flicking briefly to the cast which she elevated on a pillow and settled an ice pack over it. “Good choice,” she said again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more with Rosie... just not yet.
> 
> John's closed reduction of the broken arm bone is actually quite a routine surgery, and is often done a few days after the initial injury when swelling has already begun to go down. It involves realignment under anaesthesia, confirmation with an xray, and then casting.
> 
> ++


	6. A Wonderful Awful Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock in the opening chapter had been in John's ICU room, where another wean was ready to take place, and the nurses had asked him to step out while they made some adjustments, allowing John to wake up, see if he was ready to breathe without assistance of the ventilator. The car accident had left him with a presumed closed head injury, pneumothorax, broken arm, and some other problems. Sherlock (with help from a nanny) has been dealing with Rosie. Chapters 2-5 had been back story. Here we re-gain the time line to the present.

_It is coming along nicely. The paint is as finished as the artist wants it. He resists the urge to add, to embellish, to continue. Overworking, overediting, unnecessary. The bisque in all its loveliness speaks to him that it is time._

_The vines are complete, leaves highlighted with just enough hues and a speckle of gold. The fruit is mostly hidden, true to life, and there are subtle hints of metallic sheen to them. The vines themselves coil and spread, an occasional golden spike holding them, the glistening of a dollop of sunlight reflecting off a corner._

_The kiln heats to 1700 degrees Fahrenheit, the firing process necessary. The paint will set, the piece ready for glazing and then firing again after._

_He carries it in confident hands, sets it down. A few dials, checking the system, the stand, the stability, and all is ready. Into the heat it goes to be fired._

_Perfected._

_Refined._

_++_

Sherlock barely pays any attention to his mobile, waiting and wondering about John's condition, his situation behind the closed door of the trauma unit, down the hall, in the state of suspended ... life. In his mind, he thinks he can hear the ventilator alarm, the heart monitor, the words to John from the staff - everything too fast except oxygen levels which are probably too low. In his heart he knows John isn't ready.

Not quite. And not just yet.

A nurse comes to the door, not John's nurse, but a familiar face nonetheless. "You can come on back in."

Sherlock doesn't need to ask how it went. Her face, slightly apologetic, resigned, tells all. It was not successful.

John is still somewhat agitated when he arrives, face flushed, breathing fast. The respiratory therapist is making some adjustments as is John's nurse, who smiles but shakes her head. "Not quite ready. I think Dr. Snyder is probably going to change the sedation to something called dexmedetomidine. Precedex. It's used a lot when agitation seems to prevent extubating, and one of the benefits is that we can extubate even while he's on it at a decent dose."

He clenches his teeth, wondering why that hadn't been attempted previously, wants to yell and ask what exactly they were waiting for. "How soon can you do that?"

"Takes a little time, the changeover, titrate one med up while we slowly titrate the other med down. Over the course of the evening, if he decides to go ahead with it."

"I'm in favour." Sherlock fights the discouragement that hangs heavy in the room. “Do it. Not that you need my blessing of course.” He wants to add that there's nothing to lose, but knows it is absolutely not the truth - there is a _lot_ to lose.

The nurse steps out, and Sherlock touches John’s hand, speaking gentle words, assuring him that he’s there, that he’ll be okay, reminding him where he is, and the vent alarms again, heart rate racing, and Sherlock relegates himself to silence. Speaking to John wasn’t helping, but his touch seems to help, or at least not make things worse where the words he was speaking were apparently upsetting.

All the words he had wanted to say, those he’d never taken a chance on, those missed opportunities, are definitely going to have to wait.

++

Over the course of the next few hours, the changeover is made. A few restless moments, John tugging at the ventilator, the restraints, looking more uncomfortable until they find the best dosage. Sherlock goes home, worrying but feeling a little more hopeful at the possibility. By the time he leaves, John is calm, comfortable, and relatively stable.

The next day, with Rosie safely and happily with the nanny, John is placed on another wean. Even with the new medication that was titrated upward, he lasts only about twenty minutes on the changed ventilator settings before he fails the weaning process yet again. His agitation is such that the medicine that had been weaned and discontinued the day before actually needs to be restarted. Dr. Snyder apologetically shrugs as he sees Sherlock being readmitted to John's room, pats him on the arm as he passes but doesn't say anything. Another attempt, another day, another failure. The optimism Sherlock had takes a plummeting fall.

The setback hits Sherlock hard, and he paces in John's room feeling particularly caged in and frustrated. Though he’s not claustrophobic he finally can stand John’s room no longer and with annoyed steps, he stalks off to the end of the unit, to stare aggravatedly out the window. One of the nurses comes to find him at the end of the hallway, where he was standing with his back toward John's room.

"It's okay for you to go for the day, you know."

"It's really not. I'm all he has, here."

"I understand that, I'm just giving you permission." He forces himself to make eye contact with the kind-worded nurse, who continues. "We're here, we're watching him. We'll tell him you were here, that you've been here since the beginning if he seems like he's listening." Sherlock can feel a guilty sensation rising in him, that he does want to leave John just for a little bit, to get out, to regroup, to breathe fresh air. But he feels guilty. "The plan for him tonight is to stay sedated, rest, nutrition, whatever meds he needs. Nothing will happen until tomorrow morning."

"I feel like ..." Sherlock can feel himself nervously ready to bite on his lip. Or worse, a cuticle, and forces his face to relax and shoves his hands into his pockets. “It’s abandonment.”

She holds up a hand and he leaves the rest of the rationalisation unspoken. "It’s not. You're allowed. Go, enjoy an evening if you can. Or just rest up yourself, watch a movie."

Suddenly it sounds like a good idea, a necessary idea. Not that he will take much of a break, but he wants, he _needs_ this. The nurse smiles as she can see that the decision has been made. "Call me, any changes, any time."

"We will. Go enjoy. Catch your breath."

Sherlock texts the nanny, leaves the hospital early, and takes both the nanny and Rosie to a small, kid-friendly restaurant for dinner. She thoroughly enjoys having two adults at her disposal, her beck and call, and her excitement is refreshing as they finish up and part ways, the nanny going home, still earlier than usual, and Sherlock and Rosie enjoying a leisurely dessert, and an indulgently slow walk back. At one point before they arrive at their hotel, she races ahead and Sherlock speaks urgently to her before she gets too far ahead, with a mock sternly phrased, ‘now listen here, young lady.’ It is reminiscent of something John would have said to her as well, or sometimes previously he’d have said to to Sherlock, and the association makes him chuckle at them both. He realises that Rosie actually responded quite well to the strongly spoken phrase, the serious tone. Later that night, after Rosie is tucked in her cot, Sherlock smiles as he replays her antics, her laugh when she’d returned to him to take his hand, their silliness later, her bedtime routine, and he has a moment of inspiration.

_Listen here, indeed._

++

Sherlock, Dr. Snyder, and John’s nurse stand in the hallway outside the room. The physician raises an inquisitive brow as he clarifies, "So you're asking, what, that you stay in here the whole time with him, try to calm him down on the wean, to reason with ... reason with the _beast_ he becomes?" The nurse chuckles, having described what he'd been like the previous day, fiercely determined and very unhappy while awake and weaning. No matter what they tried previously, John wouldn't calm, wouldn't listen, to the point of desperation.

”Unruly beast,” the nurse whispers. Even the doctor laughs at that description and nods.

"Yes. He's been known to listen to me." Sherlock looks from one to the other, having pleaded his case, and finally uses the phrase he'd tried to avoid. "What do we have to lose? Because what you've been trying hasn't been all that effective, has it?"

The doctor shrugs. "I'm not thrilled with the idea. We can try, I suppose, but just so you know, at the first sign he's becoming unstable, or any of the wean is not progressing, or John isn’t tolerating it, you're out of here along with your plan."

"Fine." Sherlock raises his chin slightly, even more determined. “When can we get started?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading, I hope you're enjoying this little adventure.


	7. Calm Yourself, John

_The glaze adds a shiny, elegant coating, the paint pristine, the piece shiny and satisfying. It has been laboured over, worked on, finished, and now completed both firing processes - bisque firing and glaze firing. Carbonaceous materials have been removed, purified, and the clay is now durable. The glaze is lustrous, an overglaze in mother-of-pearl, and has been perfectly, tediously applied, and the diligence is apparent. There is not a blemish anywhere._

_The artist spreads a cloth over his workstation, feeling the hint and niggling fear of the unknown. An expected turn of events, a slip, a miscalculation, a misstep, or just bad luck, would change everything, but he presses on, knowing that the journey will be worth it. And also knowing that the journey is not an easy one._

_He hopes. Bright light from the studio windows and the fluorescent overhead illuminate every aspect._

_He brushes a finger along the edge, considers the piece again as it rests on the cloth, makes a calculation._

_"I'm sorry," he whispers. He means it, and can feel the faintest fear - both that of his own, and that of his creation. "It'll be okay."_

_He picks up a hammer._

_”I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter, his voice even more broken._

++

The nurse presses a few more buttons on the IV pump, eyes the ventilator, and shrugs to the respiratory therapist. "He's triggering?" Except for John himself (obviously), everyone in the room is watching John - chest rise, facial expression, arm tension, the straps of the restraints as they are no longer lax, the slight bend of his knees as he lightens.

"Yes, we got this far yesterday, I'll stay here a bit until he's more awake." The respiratory therapist gives Sherlock a dubious look. "And hopefully following directions this time."

The nurse also looks a little nervous. "Let's dim the lights some, decrease stimulation as much as possible."

They watch while John's respiratory rate picks up, going from sixteen up over twenty, and then higher, his tidal volumes dropping off before they had even started officially on the weaning modality. Sherlock is watching John's face. "He's definitely more awake, his whole body is tense," Sherlock observes. He cannot stop the sigh, the deep breath, the exhalation of nervous anxiety. A few more minutes tick by, and the restlessness increases a bit. The nurse nods at Sherlock, with a half shoulder shrug, a questioning expression as she wonders if he is ready. Or even, if this is a good idea. Tension and not-optimism are palpable in the room, and Sherlock adds some desperation to the mix. _God he wants this to work and has no idea about handling John like this._ Sherlock frowns but leans in closer so he doesn’t have to speak too loudly. "John. It's Sherlock."

John's brows immediately frown, creases at the top of his nose grow deeper, and his eyes twitch but do not open.

"You're in the hospital. There's been an accident. You can't talk yet, there's a breathing tube, and a ventilator." John's chest rises more quickly as he is obviously listening, obviously hearing. Sherlock wonders if any of the words make sense to him. "You're okay. I'm here now." There are more adjustments, and the white medication pump is put on standby and a few minutes later, with John's arms and legs moving a little more, the ventilator mode that had been reading ACV now reads PS/CPAP.

The respiratory therapist hangs up the clipboard on the back of the ventilator, nods, and moves to the foot of the bed to listen, watch, observe. Her part of the process is well underway. As quickly as she moves, the vent alarms - high rate, low volume - and she shakes her head as if this is already ending poorly and makes some adjustments and updates the nurse on changing flow ratios and alarm limits. Their interaction is quiet and quick, and then both of them look at Sherlock as if to remind him of why his presence is there.

"John, listen to me."

John's eyes fly open and there is sheer panic about his face. The vent alarms, the monitor alarms, John tries to sit up, tugging with vehemence on every extremity. His head twists on the pillow, all of him looking quite uncomfortable. When he gets no satisfaction trying to move his limbs, he lurches sideways in the bed, hips and shoulders shifting, angling his head in such a way that Sherlock thinks he's trying to rub the breathing tube out of his mouth using any means necessary.

"Stop that immediately," Sherlock states, firmly but not excited. He leans closer, a hand on John's elbow, another over his shoulder, and he is a comfortable distance from John's face. "Just listen a moment, breathe easily, I'll explain it all, but you have to stay calm."

His eyes are suddenly then riveted on Sherlock's face and the panic is still there, his mouth moving, trying to speak. The ventilator alarms again. The respiratory therapist silences the vent while the nurse silences the monitor. John pulls again, hard, against the restraints.

"Relax, breathe, we are all trying to help you. But you have to calm yourself, John, and listen to me." John's uncasted, left hand pulls hard - _hard_ \- up toward his face, and Sherlock takes hold of it to keep it from tugging too hard on the restraint or reaching his face as his body seems to be trying to curl up to make that happen. "Trust me a moment. Just be easy. I know it's terrible."

In the bed, he is demanding, John is, his mouth moving, trying to speak something, one word or perhaps several, over and over. Stubborn and determined, John shakes in frustration, the wild look quite uncomfortable to observe. His skin is moist, face flushed, and he is exactly as the nurse had said before, an unruly beast.

"Stop it," Sherlock says again, low and feral. _"Keep your eyes fixed on me."_

A frozen moment for them both, the words tossing them both back to another situation, another lifetime, another heartbreak, and John does stop pulling. His eyes are tearing, but the rest of his face is also sweaty so it is hard to pinpoint the origin of that.

"Slow your breathing down, or I swear they are going to throw me out and that will be it for today. You're on a breathing trial, to see about getting this god-awful, ridiculous tube out."

The respiratory therapist and the nurse are watching, and the nurse whispers, "He's absolutely listening to you. He's trying."

Sherlock nods, acknowledging the statement but doesn't look away from John. "Good on you, you can do this."

They all can see John taking intentional breaths, trying to slow down, watching Sherlock as if he is John's only lifeline. In some ways, he truly is.

John's eyes rivet, hold, _trust._

His mouth again, the same shape, the same attempt at a word. With the breathing tube, it is impossible to understand it.

"None of us understand that. Your job right now is just to relax and breathe so the doctor can see about extubation."

John continues, his eyes pleading. The desperate, broken, and tortured look, and it is absolutely pitiful to see. Heartbreaking. If Sherlock allowed it, that look of pain and distress would bring him to his knees. It would have ruined a lesser man.

"Can it wait?" Sherlock risks a quick glance at the others in the room, who are concerned. “It might have to.”

John shakes his head no so hard that he begins to cough, and there is pooling of saliva and the vent alarms and he needs suctioning and the distress level seems to be mounting.

"You can do this, just let the machine help. You're probably sore," Sherlock explains the car accident, the days in the hospital, the broken ribs, the chest tube, the head injury. "So we'll have to wait on figuring out the word, what you’re trying to tell us, and you need to talk yourself down off the ledge."

There is a frown on John's face then, anger and annoyance, and he pulls hard with his left, uncasted hand. There is a frustrated, weakly performed kick of frustration with one leg, then the other.

The nurse notices first. "Sherlock, look," she whispers, a little incredulous, "his left hand," and when he does, they realise John is giving him the one-fingered salute.

Sherlock recognises a twinge of relief. "You should watch that, Watson. The nurses are nothing but nice and you flipping them off is a bit not good." In response, the vent alarms again, high respiratory rate, and both the nurse and the respiratory therapist prompt Sherlock to get John to slow down his breathing and breathe deeper. The nurse turns on the suction catheter, clears John's mouth, and they watch a moment longer while Sherlock cues John somewhat successfully through tolerating the vent, breathing slower, and trying to calm himself down.

He unties John's left hand and the nurse whispers something about being careful - as if he'd let John harm himself by dislodging something, and Sherlock thinks the word _idiot_ quite loudly but keeps it to himself - and keeps hold of the hand but raises it to John's face to let him feel the tube, the holder, his jaw. His fingers are big and clumsy but he takes his hand up to run his fingers through his fringe anyway.

"You look fine." John's eyes flick over at Sherlock. "Vain git." The furrow between John's eyes seems to communicate something else, and Sherlock understands. " _Oh._ Headache." When John nods with a grimace, he does too. "Yes, I'd imagine you have one. There's still some pain medication infusing in one of your IVs" he tells him as the nurse nods. There is more attempting to speak a word, but it is impossible to determine. Sherlock holds John's fingers over his own palm. "Can you spell the word you're trying to say? At least try?" but John's hand is too weak, heavy, uncoordinated, tremulous, and too swollen for fine motor tasks. He offers the mobile for the same thing but John shakes his head in frustration, trying again to mouth the word. "For now, John, just hold on to that a short time. We'll figure it out, yeah? Your job is to breathe..."

Despite the fact that he doesn't think it will help, he asks the nurse if someone could bring them paper and pen.

One is delivered on a clipboard. "Don't write me a novel, now," Sherlock chides when John begins the slow task of beginning to make one letter with a weak grip on a pencil. His swollen fingers, surprisingly, are less shaky and at least able to hold the writing instrument as Sherlock holds the paper carefully in position. "Choose your words carefully, given that this is going to take forever." John narrows an eye at him. "I'm just giving you good advice to make it count, is all."

F U

is the first thing he writes, and then the pencil slides out of his fingers.

Sherlock chuckles despite himself. "Well, if we were wondering if there's been a personality change or residual damage from your head injury, there's that answered. You're you." There is another ventilator circuit-contained cough and the alarm sounds again. There is a bit of extra saliva pooling in his mouth, which Sherlock - as has been shown - uses the suction device to remove it as the nurse watches closely. "If that is all you have to say, that hand gesture you're so fond is a better choice. Easier."

John obliges him again, clearer this time given that the hand is unrestrained, and then focuses again on gripping the pencil.

R

and John gets halfway through the next, round-shaped letter when Sherlock realises the likely source of John's anxiety.

"Rosie is fine."

John closes his eyes, tears squeezing out from his eyelids, then looks questioningly at Sherlock again as if he didn't believe him.  _Are you sure?_

"Rosie is _fine_."

The vent alarms, the heart monitor as well, and John's chest heaves and shakes with emotion.

Sherlock knows now that he needs to explain further. ”She was not in the car with you.” Repeating it a couple of times, he can finally see John's face relax a little more. Not much.

He points to the letter R again and then points to himself, and his eyes cut to Sherlock's.

"No, she's not here. You're in the hospital."

He does it again, more aggravated, pointing at the letter and then again, almost angrily against the bed, as if asking her to be brought in.

"Not yet. Once you are better and off this infernal equipment, I will bring her to see you, so you can see she is all right." Immediately John reaches his free hand toward the tube as he begins to cough again, but Sherlock grabs the hand while he chases his breath, and when John is again gesturing, frustrated, mouthing something, Sherlock speaks sternly, "No." John shuts his eyes and turns his head from Sherlock. He is angry. "Open your eyes and look at me."

John points to the letter R again. And points to the bed again.

"I know you want to see her, but John, think about it."

He goes to point to the letter again, but Sherlock moves it in order to address his demand. With his mobile, he snaps a photo of John with the breathing tube, bruises, sutures, monitor leads, and in all his flushed-faced, aggravated glory.

Turning the phone so that John can see the photo, he tries to speak more calmly. "I know you want to see her, but, well, obviously we can't do that yet." John stares at the mobile but his eyes are a little glazy and unfocused, but he at least seems to be less argumentative about that. "Lose a few tubes, and then, yes. She's with a very good nanny. It's necessary right now." As he’s heard the nurses and doctors do, he reviews the basics of orientation - place, time, event, situation - just the plain and simple details. John’s eyes are open, he seems to be listening, but Sherlock suspects he’s not entirely comprehending all of it. 

The vent alarms again, and some secretions are loosened up, a different sound and new alarm. Sherlock steps back so that John's needs can be tended to, though he keeps hold of the strap of the restraint that has been untied. He fusses a bit with his mobile, too, while he has a moment, and sends off a text to the nanny with a request.

The nurse eyes the monitors again, steps to the doorway of the room where there is a computer workstation, so Sherlock returns to his place at John's side. From the tissue box at John's bedside, Sherlock grabs one and wipes first at the corner of John's eyes without a word, and then wipes his mouth again where the tube is, where he is unable to close his mouth around it. Though of course John is familiar with medicine and technology, Sherlock explains it to him, reminds him that it is all to help him, but John vacillates between laying still briefly and then moving everything including his tongue and his head. Sherlock is exhausted just watching him, the amount of energy required to just tolerate what is going on while awake is remarkable. If not impossible. A few moments later, his mobile buzzes as three photos appear in his inbox. He steps to the center of John's vision, watches the breathing and wondering about the timing. "You're doing well. Nice and easy," he speaks quietly, a hand brushing over John's arm. A nurse appears at the doorway again, cautious, perhaps skeptical as well, but she seems satisfied.

An assessment of the two of them, John's machinery, and she shrugs, "Seems to be doing well. You doing okay, Sherlock?"

He realises a few things immediately: he is still rubbing, caressing, holding John's arm, first of all and it probably appears quite beyond platonic. He doesn't care a whit about that and doesn't pull back in the least. And second, she addresses him and not John, which mostly annoys him, as if John has been relegated to the background and this is up to Sherlock. He nods quickly but is just as quick to defer the attention and the question to where it belongs, back to John. "Yes. John, are you doing okay?"

A fearful look about him, despite the reassurances, and he nods but they all see that he doesn't really mean it. A quick glance exchanged between Sherlock and the nurse, a resigned one, not terribly optimistic but at the present moment, okay. With a smile, she says that she'll be back shortly and is keeping an eye from either the doorway or the nurses station.

"You've got this," Sherlock tells him. "And if it won't upset you, I just got a few photos of Rosie from the nanny." He elaborates briefly that Rosie is being looked after, so that Sherlock can be where he is, and that they are managing.

The ventilator alarms, high pressure, high respiratory rate, followed by coughing and low exhaled tidal volume alarms. John is trying, again, to speak, and the nurse comes back to check on him. She watches and silences the alarms again, and then reminds John that he can’t speak with the breathing tube. She offers some encouragement, and then nods supportingly at Sherlock.

When the nurse leaves them alone again, John gestures and tries to mouth a word again. "Stop it. Listen to me and follow my instructions."

There are tears at the corner of John's eye but Sherlock presses on, knowing John's best interests require him to lead John safely through this process. He waits for a response. John nods, and Sherlock tries not to stare at the tear track sliding down his upper cheekbone and trickling into his hair.

"You can do this. Rosie is fine. She's in good hands right now." John's eyes are searching everywhere, trying to find Sherlock's mobile to see the photos. "Here, see?" He slides through the three pictures, which show Rosie just being herself, sitting in a pushchair in one, holding a cup in another, playing with a few toys in the other. She is dressed, put together, hair brushed, and in good health. "She's okay. We're managing. And now that you've seen, you are to stop worrying about her."

A disbelieving, incredulous look comes on John, and he mouths the word _can't._ That word, at least, is understandable.

"You have one job right now, and must leave the rest to me. I will worry about Rosie if necessary, I am taking care of things, making decisions best for you both." He ignores the small voice that could have been John in his head that is telling him about Sherlock being unfit for that. "You only have one job, and that is to get better. To heal. To take one day at a time as you recover."

There is no response from John other than a tear drops from his eyes, trickles toward the pillow.

"Do you understand me?"

Clearly, John doesn't like what Sherlock is telling him and is stubbornly refusing to acknowledge it. _Another Watson trait,_ Sherlock realises. Rosie, when so motivated, would also just as blatantly ignore a direction. Not too often, and she would eventually give in. John will too, Sherlock knows. John blinks again, looks away.

While he toys with the idea of demanding that John agree, he realises John is already hurting, suffering, powerless here. Rather than continue to have a verbal stare-down, John closes his eyes, and Sherlock smiles fondly at him because he can't see him doing so, and gets another tissue to wipe at the tears. He is well aware that John needs him to stay strong, to be focused, calm, and to allow him to continue to wean, to facilitate the process. "You're going to have to trust me on this. You can choose to be difficult, of course. But it's not helpful, getting upset, being upset. Talking is going to have to wait. Later, not now." A stray thought pops into Sherlock's consciousness, that he wants to move close and kiss his temple, and once it is there, he entertains it, wants to do so in the worst way. Instead, he lets his fingers slide gently down John's face, avoiding the suture line over his eye, and settle again along his shoulder and upper arm, hoping that the gentleness will be enough for the moment. "Do you understand me? You're to take one day at a time, and focus on getting better. Right now, it's about you being awake and calm and just breathing."

John turns his head as much as he is able toward Sherlock, searching for his hands again, looking for skin contact, and Sherlock is happy to oblige.

"This sucks, I know. There aren't a lot of other good options here." The board on the wall with the staff names, length of stay, and the date catches Sherlock's eye. Under the plan for the day section, one of the nurses has written Wean and Extubate! in red marker. 

John's eyes shut, a few more tears squeeze out, and he nods his head.

"You worry only about you and doing what you're told. I'm handling the rest. Rosie is all right, and you will be too." He enjoys the feeling of John's arm under his own, his fingers enjoying the skin, the touch, the connection. "It'll be okay. You understand?"

A small nod.

"Good choice. Now, slow your breathing down a bit, I know you're breathing through what feels like a straw, but take a deeper breath, yeah? Slower, more full." John obeys and winces. "Right the broken ribs and chest tube, little sore yeah?" Sherlock reminds him again, of where he is, why he's there, and that his injuries are getting better.

There is a pulling where John's casted arm and hand are still tied down, restrained, and Sherlock glances at it. John is giving him the middle finger. Again. Sherlock understands the gesture, remembering his own days after an injury or gunshot, when the words he heard were  _a little sore_ and in actuality it was _excruciating pain_.

Sherlock speaks again, some mindless, reorientation words about the car accident, a casual litany of their last few days together in Scotland, a random Rosie antic from earlier, and John does seem to be more relaxed.

”Close your eyes if you want. Relax. Breathe.”

Sherlock is surprised that he does, and there are a few moments of peace until Sherlock slips his hand out from John's, needing to shift from his mildly uncomfortable position, adjust the chair he is in, pocket the mobile, and let John continue to manage this. The loss of Sherlock’s fingers however is immediately sensed, and Johns eyes open wide again and he looks panicky and desperate. Another attempt to mouth a word - unsuccessful - and John makes a writing gesture, and Sherlock sets the paper and pen for use.

The letters are painstakingly slow and painful, for John to make, for Sherlock to watch.

S

T

A

Y

And then painful to read.

John stops writing, the pencil falls from his fingers.

Sherlock is struck by the raw emotion, the vulnerability, the confession: John is afraid. He places his hand over John's, a comforting touch, an expression of caring. The skin connection seems to trigger some other chemistry between them, his fingers tingling and John's initially placid before turning to cling despite their swelling to Sherlock's. A raggedy breath and heaving chest trigger the ventilator to alarm again.

"Slow down your breathing, or they'll throw me out." His eyes seek out John's and he smiles reassuringly, keeping a hold on his hand but bringing his other to John's face, a comforting touch over his temple, soothing, and his voice finds words. And the words tumble out: It's okay, I'm here, I'll stay as long as I can, you're doing better, breathe easily, eyes on me, you can do this, nice and relaxed. They are words he's heard the nurses use, the tone gently encouraging.

John nods, trusting eyes riveted on Sherlock's face as if drawing strength from just his very presence. The eye contact is just short of electric for them both, an intimate closeness. John’s eyes are clearer than they’ve been, more himself, and he minutely adjusts himself in the bed so that at least he is leaning toward Sherlock, aware, seeking him out, trying to be closer. Sherlock holds Johns hand, loosely, carries it gently to his own face, where it rests possessively against Sherlock’s cheek.

Footsteps at the doorway, and a nurse is there, but neither man moves. It is another one of the nurses that has cared for John, for them both, from the beginning. Her smile is both sweet and a little surprised. 

"All righty then." She stands on the other side of John's bed, tells them she’s come to check on him, check on things, and will be keeping an eye on them for the rest of the shift. She explains the process, the timing of when blood will be drawn to assure them of the wisdom of possibly pulling the breathing tube. "So then once we get the results back, Dr. Snyder will probably come see you, decide on if or when, and then it's a whole new game. You save your energy for breathing and keeping the tube out. Chest tube's liable to be a little sore and the rib fractures, mind, but deep breaths and incentive spirometry will be both your best friend and your archenemy."

John and Sherlock exchange a look at her word choice.

"But for now, keep this up, another, oh, half hour or so. A necessary evil, this part of weaning." Her finger comes up to point at Sherlock. "Your job is to keep him calm. Not a lot of extra energy spent on anything else, hear?"

Nodding compliantly, Sherlock watches her go and then looks back at John. John is quite focused, watching and waiting and depending on Sherlock, who says, "We will talk about all this later, when you're better. For now, it's about getting that infernal tube out of your mouth. Because until you do that, the rest of this is all rather secondary." He glances at the monitor, the ventilator panel, then back at John. "And yes, about your note, I'll stay as long as I can, provided the nanny can stay there longer, to put Rosie to bed."

The requisite half hour passes with a few more alarms, frequent checks by the nurse and someone else from the respiratory care department, and then an arterial blood gas is drawn from the radial artery in John's wrist, labeled, iced, bagged, and sent for analysis.

John does settle, clinging to Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock draws close one of the folding chairs, where he sits gingerly in a spot where he can see what he wants while holding John's hand, or touching his arm, and be present. His story-telling dwindles down and his closer observations of John include a sense that he is working harder, his shoulders rising slightly with each breath, and there is less animation about his face. His oxygenation stays high, but his rate is up, volumes are down, and he's just looking serious, as if he's needing to concentrate more, needing to conserve strength. By all appearances, John is less comfortable than he'd been earlier.

Dr. Snyder returns with a piece of paper, the laboratory report, and Sherlock's heart sinks as soon as he sees his face. Though John has been calmer, not agitated, and following directions, the blood work results tell the tale.

Good, but not good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know we were almost there. But John had a bit of injury, some underlying lung damage, and before extubating, the staff is going to want him to prove himself just a little more. While there is an acceptable reintubation rate, none of them want to risk that particular setback with John.
> 
> Next chapter, the tube comes out. I assure you it will be worth the wait.
> 
> Each facility, each ventilator, has it's own abbreviations, but this particular vent:  
> ACV - assist control ventilation, where the machine determines the minimal breaths and volumes involved. The patient is able to initiate breaths and add rate and volume above the predetermined settings.
> 
> PS/CPAP - pressure support with continuous positive airway pressure, where the machine will assist patient initiated breaths and leave a small amount of pressure within the airways.
> 
> ++


	8. Finally, Progress

_The piece is no longer singing. There is a lingering pallor, a hush, over the workstation, the broken art, and the artist._

_The artist resists the urge to rush this part, to quickly hurry past these crucial preparatory measures._

_Jagged pieces of the previously beautiful bowl - handcrafted, unique, priceless - lay dismembered on a lint-free cloth. They are lined up, a graveyard of friends, disorderly headstones of destruction. They wait, silently in death-like state. Irregular chunks have broken randomly, though the exact point of impact of the hammer, deliberate and exactly what the artist wanted, chosen carefully. Intentionally._

_Even though it had been a particularly devastating, even agonising blow to strike._

_Carefully, he picks up each shard, each fragment one at a time. It is painstakingly wiped down, freed of dust, and the edges are assessed. The thinnest slivers are carefully sanded to leave a strong edge of colour, a suitable surface for the work ahead. After being tended to, the ceramic is laid out in meticulous order on a new cloth. For now, the pieces are face down on their painted sides. Later, he will flip them over, let the rest of the story emerge. But for now, he allows the brokenness and the grief to wash all across him, envelop him, to suck him under. Drowning. Even in the pain, he does not resist the dark emotion, knowing that the sadness is necessary. Crucial. Critical. It will give him greater care, more tenderness as he evaluates and soothes the broken edges._

_The pain will be all wrapped up, entwined in the finishing, the crafting, the assemblage of beautiful and beastly, exquisite agony. Interlaced._

_When the final piece, the last chunk, has been wiped, sanded, tended, he wraps the previous cloth around the hammer and stows it away in the depths of the hushed studio._

_He is not smiling. The broken pottery is still not singing._

_The artist, however, is hopeful. In the calm and stillness of the studio, he looks forward to better things ahead. Better days ahead for them both._

_Better, stronger days ahead, indeed._

++

Sherlock tosses most of the night, hearing the sound of the ventilator alarm in his sleep every time he drifted into REM sleep. Even a faint sigh or reposition of Rosie's is enough to awaken him and if he is feeling discouraged, he can only imagine how lousy and defeated John must be feeling. So bloody close.

John had already demonstrated plenty of what he was feeling last evening. Over the many years of their friendship, Sherlock had seen John angry, furious, upset, energetic, and many other both positive and negative moods. But an agitated and approaching out-of-control John Watson is something he doesn't ever care to see again.

The doctor had beckoned Sherlock to the hallway just outside John's door yesterday, watching John, taking it all in. He explained that his blood work was passable, in a marginal sort of way. Had John looked better, seemed more comfortable, been breathing easier, he might have gone ahead with removing the breathing tube and crossing his fingers. But because of the lung damage, rib pain, the presence of the chest tube, and the increased work of breathing, he felt it best to let John remain intubated, breathe some more on his own, then rest overnight. "We'll see how things look tomorrow morning."

"'We'll see'. What _exactly_ does that mean?"

Dr. Snyder had not been intimidated by Sherlock's question nor his challenge. "It means exactly that: we'll see. The rest of his blood work, his morning chest X-ray, how comfortable he is, the rest of his weaning parameters." From inside John's room, there had been more restlessness, and one of the nurses had been attending him, and the men step a bit closer, where all can see that John is much less comfortable, his work of breathing a bit more pronounced. "How the night goes."

"What about how pissed off he is?"

"That can be a factor." Dr. Snyder was speaking quietly to Sherlock in John's room doorway by this point. "Listen, today was huge. Your presence, unmistakably, was absolutely good for him. This was the best day he's had. I know you're anxious --"

"This is not about me. _John_ is anxious."

"Of course he is -- but this is safer. Waiting. We let him work a little, exercise, if you will. Tomorrow, if the decision is to extubate, we can do it with reasonable certainty that he'll stay off the vent."

Sherlock was ready to launch another response, wants to press, wants this part of the process - the endless, infernal waiting - to be over.

Dr. Snyder had smiled gently. "Look, I understand, truly. I'm giving you my best medical opinion here, and I'm asking you, and asking John, to trust me."

The news had not gone over well, and by the time Sherlock left - the last possible minute that would still be acceptable to the nanny who had been gracious enough to stay, as well as to handle another of Sherlock's requests, and she'd been so flexible so far. There was a text that Rosie had been put to bed - and Sherlock was torn, wanting to stay while needing to leave. John was really worked up, and there was discussion of the plan as well as medication changes. His heart rate was up and staying up, his ventilator settings all beyond their alarm limits, his body sweaty, gesturing angrily. All in all, the disappointment, the delay had been a terrible experience, given that he was much more aware, awake, and cognisant. John was certainly letting them all know of his displeasure, his wanting the tube out immediately, and Sherlock had watched the nurses handle him with care, using calm words, touch when needed, and most of all a constant assessment trying to find the right balance, knowing when John might need sedation, more restraints, less stimuli, or a combination thereof. The night nurse had her hands completely full of her unhappy patient. Before Sherlock was comfortable leaving, there had been, that evening, plans for vent changes, increased medications, and hopefully for John to rest.

Sherlock had been very eager to leave the building, to leave John, and was feeling very guilty with each step that took him farther away. The nurse, however, had been insistent. "We've got this. We will take care of getting him calm, biding his time through the night, resting. You have things to attend to, it's okay to leave." It was reminiscent of that other terrible night, when they'd sent him home with permission. "He might settle a little faster, too, once you've left."

"Or he might get worse?" Sherlock asked, trying not to worry a little at his lip.

The nurse had smiled at him. "Go home. I promise you we'll take good care of him." In the end, he left, still worried, but the providers have formulated a plan and John did seem a little more resigned by the time he told John that he'd see him in the morning.

At four am, he is listening to Rosie sucking her thumb intermittently. The habit had previously been there he knew, but over the last days or perhaps since Sherlock had arrived, it had resumed. The noise from across the room, though it is quiet, has him wide awake. Eventually, he can stand it no longer and takes his mobile into the loo to call in to the unit for an update. Sedated and resting, he is told, and the nurse chuckles slightly. "Strong-willed baseline, would you say?"

"You have no idea," Sherlock agrees, knowing that determination would ultimately be helpful to John's recovery. They chat a bit, and Sherlock is finally told by the nurse to try to take a nap himself. He tries, laying down again, but can't seem to get the images, real and imaginary, out of his head. Plus, the unknown of the day in front of them all weighs heavily on him, the mostly uncontrollable forces that will determine the path in front of them. The nanny is early, knowing that he is anxious, and Sherlock resolves to compensate her (or actually, have Mycroft take care of it) far beyond their agreed upon rate. She shoos him away, grinning at his eagerness, and helps Rosie wave goodbye to him. As he is leaving, she presses a small, bagged item into his hands - his request from the previous day.

He kisses her cheek and she swats at him fondly, advising him to chivvy along.

Sherlock's mobile rings as he is a few blocks away. The hospital of course, hopefully with just an update. "Sherlock Holmes."

"It's Dr. Snyder. Just looking for an approximate time of your arrival. John's asking for you."

"Asking as in speaking?" He wonders that the breathing tube might already be out.

"Well, not as such, writing actually. He's a bit anxious and wants you here." Sherlock hears the subtext: _Get in here, he's unpleasant, we're hoping not to need sedation, and we could really use your help here_.

"I'm still a few minutes out."

"Looks good this morning. Better. I reckon he's ready."

Sherlock wants to call him on the uncertainty and fickle use of the word reckon but knows that the doctor is being honest and he appreciates that though he wishes it was a confident statement instead. "Good news, that. So, the plan is ..."

"Yes, so, he'll do another hour minimum on a wean, the changed vent settings, we'll get another arterial blood gas, and provided it is good, the tube will come out."

Sherlock says nothing to that, and is quite hopeful for success even as he is nervous. Failure has never been pleasant for him, and here, he knows the stakes are high. To fail with John, with his breathing, would be spectacularly abhorrent.

"We tried to start the wean earlier, but he's rather stubbornly refusing to let us do much of anything else until you get here."

"He's ridiculous." Sherlock can quite imagine the scene, John issuing demands from the bed and dictating how the day will progress. "Tell him I'm on my bloody way."

++

John looks a little better, more awake, more tolerant, and he's sitting more upright than he'd been yesterday. His eyes are wide and as he spies Sherlock, relief melts him against the pillow, tension falling away - not entirely, but the evidence is plain. The nurse is standing at the computer at his doorway. "See?" she tells John. "We told you he was on his way."

Sherlock is finally encouraged, much more optimistic having clapped eyes on John, seeing the difference, and growls with an underlying good nature, "Stubborn git."

"Sedation's been completely off for hours, still weaning that last one, the precedex. Made the vent changes maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago." The nurse fills Sherlock in on how the rest of morning has been as she comes to John's side and unties the restraints, one wrist and then the other. "Long as you're in the room with him, these can certainly come off. Chest X-ray's still pending an official reading, but we think it's looking improved." She smiles at John, then, seeing that he's paying close attention, wide-eyed, serious. "One thing at a time, though, as we've been telling you. Breathe easy for now, that's your only task at the moment."

Glancing down at his now unrestrained hands, he reaches his left hand toward the cast, fingers still swollen, but then before he even touches it, another cough forms, the vent alarms, and there is fear on his face. Any motion he'd been making halts.

Sherlock finds and holds his hand, brushing a few fingers along the knuckles as he slides it back along the bed. Through pursed lips, Sherlock exhales. "First things first, okay?"

John, with a slightly petrified look about him, nods, stills. "Breathe now. Explore later,” the nurse agrees.

Sherlock sees John very intently concentrating, the tube hanging out of his mouth on a different side than last night, pinching a little at the corner of his lip and looking more uncomfortable than usual, if such a thing was even possible. "Can I," he begins, reaching and looking, and then the nurse sees what he's discovered. Both of them work together, Sherlock's hands bare and the nurse's gloved, to readjust the holder, sliding John's lip out of the way, easing the pinch, and while they are all still very close, Sherlock raises his eyes to find John really studying him, eyes riveted and bright as they share a few heightened moments of eye contact from mere centimetres apart. There is trust and need and want and a plea not to leave and something very much that Sherlock can only stare back at. So much more, too.

It isn't until the nurse clears her throat and excuses herself that they both realise they are oh so close, staring, their faces not far apart.

Sherlock can feel his cheeks heat as they are suffused with colour, and he edges back, finding that a chair had been placed there at the bedside without him realising it. Swallowing hard and thinking to himself that he seems to need to do that a lot these days, he sinks lightly into the chair and says nothing. John's arm, with the wrist restraint on it but untied, straps trailing, slides across the sheet, palm up. It is a request and an offer.

"Do you want to write something?" Sherlock asks him.

The look John bestows on him is largely unreadable, a quiet steady look as if willing Sherlock to mind-read. John shakes his head no and Sherlock can fairly well tell that John is just plodding through. Biding his time. Soldiering on, as it were.

Sherlock reaches out himself, his hand steadily moving to meet John's hand, wrapping long fingers and weaving through John's still swollen ones, without a second thought. It is, apparently, something they have grown comfortable with, something companionable, something they almost habitually do now. Rather than something he is uncomfortable with, it is settling and centering to them both. A few glances at the heart monitor, and Sherlock can even tell that John's heart rate and respiratory rate are slower, better, calmer.

Dr. Snyder strides into the room, shoes smartly clicking on the lino as he does so, and comes close enough to grab lightly at John's toe. "So now that everyone's here, we can proceed yeah?" Smiling, he presses a few buttons on the ventilator, checking settings and pressures, evaluating a few different displays and screens. "Looks promising," he reports, and the air in the room is tense, anticipatory. John very much has his game face on, is focusing on trying to stay calm, very much aware of Sherlock, either watching or touching, eyes continually seeking him out. "He's a lot more relaxed now that you're here," he adds, and puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "So the plan from here, provided you look this good after another half hour or so, oxygen is good, breathing rate, we'll get rid of that tube. Today your mantra is going to include things like deep breaths, taking it easy, not a lot of talking. It's about saving your energy for breathing." He picks up the clear plastic with blue pieced incentive spirometer, sets it back down on the table. "And this, eventually."

Sherlock nods, and then utters some quiet agreement.

"Questions?" Dr. Snyder addresses John, who shakes his head a bit and then, with the movement, starts to cough again. Both of them watch John regulate his breathing again, the alarm resetting itself as he does. "Hang in there, okay? Looking encouraging." He pats them both on his way out of the room. "Good job, both of you."

The unit is a little busier than it's been, an emergency down the hall as the staff manages another medical crisis, as the distraction helps pass the time. Sherlock reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, pulls out something to set it on the overbed table. It had been a thought yesterday, something Rosie's nanny had managed for him, and had taken care of the small errand willingly. It is a photo frame, simple and wooden, cheaply made, with a stand to prop it up so that it is directly in John's line of sight. Inside the frame is a candid photo, a close up of Rosie taken with a simple mobile phone camera a day or so ago, printed out at an express print shop. It is for John to see, to keep it close to him. In the picture, Rosie is smiling, eyes big and deep blue, her hair slightly tousled, and her mouth is just a bit open, a few hints of teeth. She is clearly interested in something and intently watching, a few fingers visible as she was perhaps pointing.

John stares, and cannot stop staring at it, and Sherlock watches him closely, particularly his eyes and breathing pattern for signs of distress or emotional upset. "She's doing okay." Sherlock squeezes John's hand once, gently, to get his attention. "And so are you. I thought the photo would be a good reminder, good ... motivation perhaps."

Faintly, John nods and then turns his head to look at Sherlock, smiling, grateful, and there is another squeeze of their clasped hands that Sherlock understands immediately. He squeezes back. "You're welcome."

Over the next minutes with just the two of them in the room, Sherlock manages to keep John calm and mostly occupied, suctions his mouth a time or two as they wait. They are checked on a few times by some of the staff, and eventually Dr. Snyder and a respiratory therapist come back in. The respiratory therapist is holding some corrugated blue tubing, a blue pad, and a syringe. The doctor scrolls through a few screens on the ventilator again and tells John. "So, things look good, we're able to monitor your exhaled carbon dioxide through this capnography monitor here," and he gestures to a yellow, boxy waveform on the face of the heart monitor, lower down, "and it's been very good. So, given the whole picture, we're going to skip the blood work and get rid of that tube for you."

The respiratory therapist briefly explains the process, the suctioning, the directions he will give as the tube comes out, and the aerosol mask that John will wear for several hours afterward. "You ready?" he asks John, whose eyes remain wide and serious but he nods. To Sherlock, he says, "Okay, then, we'll just have you step out for a few moments."

With a quick snap, John grabs for and finds Sherlock's hand with desperation, emphatically, squeezing hard and shakes his head no. Dr. Snyder and the therapist exchange a glance, and Dr. Snyder addresses that with a cautiously raised brow, "Fine with me. But usually we do that because the tube is disgusting and usually comes up with all kinds of ... _schmutz_ on it."

"If John's okay with that, I couldn't care less." Sherlock speaks matter-of-factly, with a shrug.

The respiratory therapist also shrugs but there is a smile, a semi-tolerant, _I hope you know what you're in for_ , type of smile.

There is suctioning, both down the endotracheal tube as well as deep into the back of John's throat all of which trigger coughing and brief alarming that is silenced. The blue tubing is connected, misting, and a blue pad is placed over John's upper chest like a bib. "Ready?" John is asked, and finally they peel back the holder on his face, ask John to cough, and when he does, the tube is removed (with, yes, some thick, disgusting tan/yellow phlegm). He coughs again, his face turning slightly ruddy as he does so, and the nurse suctions John's mouth of some thick mucous.

"Tell me your name, lad," the respiratory therapist says.

" _John ... Watson_ " comes out as a hoarse, quiet, croak, and the face mask is applied. After a few moments, the ventilator is put on standby and pushed to the corner of the room, John's mouth is suctioned and cleaned again, and the nurse brings a warm flannel to John's mouth, lips, lets him rid himself of biofilm, tape residue, and the build-up of a few days not really being able to do so completely. In a grateful whisper, he utters a quiet "thanks." Smiling, she reminds them both to take it easy, not a lot of talking, and she dims the overhead light. The room is suddenly a lot less frightening and hostile, with the sound of the aerosol mask quite loud, sterile water bubbling through the mist, the mask giving short puffs of steam in conjunction with John's breathing.

Sherlock takes John's hand, brings it to his face once more, letting his lips sort of hint at the possibility that he was thinking about brushing a congratulatory kiss along it, but he second-guesses himself and doesn't quite carry through with it, and he sits back in the chair close to John's side. A quick swipe at his eyes, and he took takes a deep, calming, cleansing breath. "Thank god, John. I know there's a lot to say, but you're not supposed to do much talking yet." Sherlock wonders briefly whose voice is actually more hoarse at the moment, and presses ahead briefly, "Just, thank god. You'll be all right. And we'll talk later."

John raises a hand to pluck off the mask, apparently intent on saying something in return, and the whisper is unintelligible given the throat swelling, the noise from the mask, and the hoarseness.

"Stop it. John, seriously, let's make an attempt to be cooperative, yeah?" Amused finally, Sherlock cannot stop the chuckle and he eases the mask back into place, pulling John's hand away at the same time. "You can write, or you can wait."

John's eyes are bright, and he rolls them in response. "Fuck you," he manages to whisper thickly, and that, of course, is completely understandable.

"I'm getting a swear jar, soon as I can. God, Watson, your mouth." John makes a few more raspy noises with his mouth, and Sherlock can see him working his jaw and his lips that have to be sore after so many days being held open. His hands are also busy, particularly the one that is not encased in the light blue cast, and Sherlock looks down to see John giving him the finger. Again. "And that counts, too, that gesture, by the way. It's amazing Rosie hasn't already picked up on it, either thing."

Another sound from John that remarkably resembles Rosie's name.

"Sorry. But really," Sherlock holds up a hand, tilts his head toward the photo again. "She's fine. She's got the nanny wrapped around her finger, and they're off at a reading at a library or something today, a puppet show after lunch. A nap." He is ready to launch into something else. "John, stop. Just breathe. Take it easy. God you're relentless. They said rest, not much talking yet. Maybe you should pass the time by taking a nap. They dimmed the lights, you've got your oxygen, just relax. I'll stay right here."

One of the nurses has been in the doorway assessing, listening, and waiting for them to finish, and she comes back in, then, and watches both John and the monitor for a minute or so. "Slow down a little if you can. Think about getting air all the way down here," and she indicates her own lower ribs. "Alveolar recruitment in both lung bases, since I know you speak that language." She watches John obey and then the resultant grimace he makes. "Right. It's going to be sore, the rib fractures and the chest tube. And five, no, six days of a ventilator." He tries to turn his head to look at the monitor but is unable, so she gives him the update. "Sinus rhythm, high eighties. Pulse ox ninety-five to ninety-eight on the forty percent CAM. Pressures never been an issue, right now 124/72. Respiratory rates the thing, right now in the mid-twenties. Slow down, increase your tidal volume, yeah?" John complies in the short term, and she offers some praise and encouragement.

"Hurts."

Her finger approaches her lips, shushing him, but she is smiling. "I know. Broken ribs, chest tube, remember?" John nods. "Touch of pneumonia, few other things. You're still on the fentanyl infusion, very low dose, which they'll probably switch to intermittent tomorrow. I'll have the precedex off in another hour." There had already been adjustments made to it, titrating it down in lower doses as John didn't need it now that he was doing better, no longer agitated, his mentation clear finally.

His lips form the name of the medication, and he is puzzled. "Really? What for?"

"Damn," Sherlock said, "will you just stop it already?" and John points a swollen finger at him for the curse word. "It was totally worth it, and there's no jar yet." He smiles at John even as he shakes his head. "You don't remember any of the agitation, any of the restlessness that couldn't be controlled, and I failed to get video proof of it. The precedex was only after the propofol and the benzos and all the rest of it didn't work to calm you."

The look John gives him is complete confusion, as if he is sure Sherlock is lying.

”You might have been referred to as an unruly beast," the nurse interjects. His eyes are wide, disbelieving, and shocked, and he looks to the nurse for confirmation. "Oh yes. Unruly beast, yes. You're a new man today." She grins, holds up a hand as John seems to be more inclined to keep talking. "We'll fill you in later. For now, listen to Sherlock. Just breathe and take it easy, just like he said. Your energy today is to be strictly conserved for breathing."

"Water?" John whispers.

"Not yet. I know you're in a rush." The nurse smiles playfully at him, offers him a small pink sponge on a cardboard stick that they'd been using all along to keep his mouth clean, fresh. "Mouth swabs for you today." She informs him that the feeding tube is actually supplying nutrition and water, and that a speech therapist will test his swallowing function in the morning. "After six plus days with that tube down your throat, it takes a little time."

The face John gives, the mouthing of the word 'six' and it is brutally apparent that John had no idea as to passage of time.

After a little bit, and with some encouragement (and directions from Sherlock who deliberately does not engage, choosing instead to raise a stern eyebrow), John dozes off, his breathing quite stable, oxygen levels and respiratory rate all as expected. After carefully and slowly removing his hand from John's without awakening or alarming him, Sherlock disengages and catches the nurse in the hallway.

"He's going to want to see his daughter. Today." Sherlock's voice is serious, and he knows it's only a matter of time before John asks. Or more likely, demands. "Or sooner," he says with another smile.

"Right, the little girl in the photo, I presume. She's adorable. How old?"

"Two."

The nurse makes a face. "Visitors are supposed to be over age twelve here in the trauma unit. Despite all of our measures, drug resistant bacteria poses a risk for them, or any of the bacteria they carry in with them can be harmful. Little vectors of infection, you know?" She asks the clarifying question, and Sherlock nods reluctantly in agreement. "I really don't recommend it yet. Not yet. Unless she's desperate and distraught and already traumatised, see if you can hold off until at least tomorrow afternoon. I'm back, and by then, we'll have the catheter out, and hopefully he'll pass his swallow eval, lose the feeding tube, too. Sitting out in a chair is going to be best for her to see him, looking a little more ... _normal_ if we can do it that way."

"He won't like it," Sherlock warns. "Waiting."

She shrugs back at him as if to leave unspoken the phrase 'too bad,' and then adds, "Oh, and absolutely a very short visit. Hand-washing for all of you. And if I get caught tomorrow and get grief, I'm going to deny saying it was okay." Their smiles are conspiratory.

"Right. I shall ask forgiveness rather than permission."

She softens a little, tones it down. "But I've got a couple kids, and it would be killing me too, so we'll do our best, okay?"

A monitor alarm from John's room starts to chime then, and the nurse steps back inside to John's bedside. Sherlock follows. John is still asleep, but his breathing is more shallow and the rate is quite high again. She brushes him lightly on the leg as she speaks. "John? Hey, open your eyes a moment. Need to wake you up a bit for a little while okay?" His eyes open, and she continues. "Slow and deep now, your breathing. You're almost panting, breathing too shallow, too fast. Remember what I said, slow down, deeper breath?" John nods, tries to comply, and then frowns as he does so. "Right, it's going to be sore. Fractured ribs are painful, but it's to help get over the pneumonia, keep you off the vent." From the counter, she picks up a folded blanket that has been taped into a padded, moderately thick rectangle. "Try splinting with this."

She helps position the pillow over the sorest area and he takes a slow, cautious breath.

"Does that help?"

"A bit," he admits, the mask still muffling his voice. His fingers find the tubing of the chest drain and, frowning, he picks at it. "Is there an air leak?"

Sherlock can only shake his head and quietly admonish, _"John, really!"_

The burst of laughter that comes from the nurse is refreshing. "No one asks that. Ever." Eyes twinkling, she says to him, "Hasn't been an air leak all along, wasn't earlier today." She peers at the gauge, sees that there is still no indication of a problem. "Still isn't. Normal tidaling. Did you have a chest tube with your injury in the army?"

He shakes his head in the negative, then splays out his fingers over the folded splinting blanket he's holding. "Just hurts. What are my --" John begins, his voice still quite muffled and quiet behind the mask and with the recent presence of the breathing tube. He cuts off abruptly when she holds out a threatening finger at him and shushes him.

To Sherlock, the nurse then turns and lays into him. "I thought you said he's been known to listen to you." Sherlock recalls saying exactly that. "Energy is for breathing, not talking. Both of you. I'm stepping out now, just for that reason," and John is immediately unhappy with that. With another exaggerated sigh, the nurse looks skyward. "Okay, but first I will give you a run-down. Injuries, locations, labs, the works, yeah? But let me get a workstation in front of me because ..." and she steps away muttering about doctors making absolutely terrible patients, the worst ever, and that they never stop worrying, never shut up, never turn it off. But she is good natured about it and Sherlock can feel in his gut that John has turned the corner toward recovery. 

Once they are alone in the room, John's eyes seek out Sherlock's again. "Rosie," he whispers, not exactly a question.

Sherlock considers a more teasing answer, settles on an honest one. "Is doing well. The nurse said maybe tomorrow. Short visit. If things are going okay."

"Oh god," John breathes, the answer being particularly not what he wanted to hear.

"Try to just get through this next hour," Sherlock says. "And then the hour after that. I already asked about Rosie, and they require visitors to be twelve. But we'll see, okay?" He promises nothing, then reaches for and squeezes John's hand again. "Today has already been successful. One thing at a time."

John takes a shaky breath, one that tells Sherlock how much he is struggling, how emotional and upset he is on the cusp of becoming. "I need," he begins.

With gentle fingers, Sherlock turns closer and brushes the fringe from his forehead. "I know. Water." They make eye contact, and it is a strong connection, two shades of blue, intense, focused. A slight frown, and Sherlock can tell that John isn't referring to water. Their eyes hold longer and say many things, both directions, no spoken words necessary - _thank you, I'm sorry, don't leave, you're important, I need ..._ He smiles wistfully as John's hand twitches around his again, aware of the photo that is still on the overbed table. "And Rosie." 

John nods and then shakes his head slowly. There are bright eyes, ones that finally look more like John's again, comprehending his situation, aware. From under the mask, John licks at his lips, and Sherlock leans closer, not wanting to miss whatever John is ready to say. "That, too, but ..."

Distant footsteps get louder and then stop at the doorway, and a throat clears, interrupting the moment.

Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.
> 
> ++
> 
> The italicised portions in the beginning of each chapter refer to the very beautiful, very intricate work of kintsugi (occasionally referred to as kintsukaroi). It is the art of repairing pottery with gold, the mending of a broken object by filling the cracks and overlaying or brushing the seams with gold.
> 
> Within the concept of kintsukaroi is important that the viewer consider not only the physical appearance, but that the importance of the beauty _stays_ with the one who sees it. The final product includes the brokenness to fully repaired, and is even more beautiful as a result of the breakage and the restoration. It is a Japanese art form, and the craftsman is taught awe, reverence, and restoration. There is a lovely interview [here.](https://makezine.com/2015/08/17/kintsugi-japanese-art-recognizing-beauty-broken-things/)
> 
> There will be a greater parallel in upcoming chapters, but it seemed time for the revelation as to what the point has been up to now. We all have our scars, do we not, boys?
> 
> ++ 
> 
> I was NOT planning on leaving the chapter at this particular place, but we all know how meddlesome Mycroft can be. He just showed up and did not want to be relegated to the next chapter where I wanted him initially.
> 
> As always, please let me know if there's something blatant screaming at you, a typo, a detail that I could possibly have over-edited. Thanks for reading along, for the comments, each kudo.


	9. Almost, Rosie!

_The artist pauses, knowing that the task ahead of him is daunting, labourious, time-consuming. A visual glance about assures him that all is ready._

_Epoxy. Mixing paper, wooden stick. Applicator. Protective gear. Clean cloth. Padded area to work, just in case. Broken ceramic pieces. Plastic pellets to hold the work once it has been assembled._

_Rather, RE-assembled._

_For him, comfortable stool, music already cued up and playing, Pachelbel today for the rhythm, the brilliance, the structural complexity built into the music. Water bottle with straw. Comfortably tied apron. Patience. Determination._

_He turns to the first large shard. "I'm ready. Are you?"_

_His connectedness to the work is something that has never been taught. It cannot be taught. His mentor, his instructors, had alluded to personification but only with vague prophecy. There had been a knowing smile when he'd first spoken to a piece he'd completed, years before. It is a pleasant memory, a sweet process, a labour of love. His mouth twitches a bit, not quite ready yet for more, and_ _he brushes his talented fingers lightly over a few of the pieces that lay before him._

_A caress. Assurance that they are cherished and cared for. Appreciated._

_"Let's get started then, shall we?" he whispers and sets to work._

_One piece at a time._

++

"It appears I may be interrupting?" Mycroft says in a calm, aloof tone from the doorway.

Sherlock breaks eye contact immediately at the intrusion. He resists the urge to quickly spring back, let go of John, move a more respectable distance away, as if he's been caught. Instead, he tries to ignore the colour in his cheeks, stays exactly where he is and moves only his head. "I think it's family only allowed in here. Or those listed as next of kin."

There is a slight smirk at this, but otherwise Mycroft ignores his brother. "Congratulations on today's progress, Dr. Watson."

It is quite telling that John does not even attempt to speak to Sherlock's brother. Instead, he simply makes a slightly impatient gesture with his hand, something between a _thanks_ and a _get on with it_.

"I brought you something," he says without further drama, and sets a tablet down on the overbed table, props it up so that John can see, and presses a few buttons. "Stopped to drop off a similar one with your daughter, Dr. Watson. With the nanny, actually, of course." Mycroft attends to his mobile then pockets it, and they all watch the tablet. The screen lights up, and shortly there is a video feed of what appears to be a corner table in a cafe. The angle, the image moves and tilts, and then Rosie is front and center, sitting on the lap of the nanny. A drink rests in front of her, a chunky puzzle, a small helping of cut up fruit.

"God," John breathes, eyes wide.

"So you can see for yourself, from time to time, that she is well."

Eyes are fixed on the image, and John reaches out a stiff hand toward the screen, reflexively. There are whispered words under the mask but too quiet to be considered audible. His face is focused, staring, and there is a sad set to his features.

"Until, of course, you are able to actually visit in person." Mycroft takes a brief glance around the room, then settle on John's cast.

Sherlock, bristling, rises quickly to stand at Mycroft's side and tug at his elbow. "You should have cleared it with me first. Don't you think this might make it _harder_ \--?"

"No," John says slowly, still watching. Rosie on the screen is now squirming, a pudgy hand eating a halved grape, and she angles off the lap of the nanny, who glances at the camera, smiles, shrugs, and lets her slide down off her lap. "It's good to see."

"I tried, if you'll bloody check your damn mobile. Texts yesterday requesting an update, last evening with a request to ring. This morning, advising you that --" Sherlock huffs but is silent, having indeed ignored Mycroft given that he'd been quite focused on the drama at hand thank you very much. The screen angles again, and a larger view of the cafe appears, where there is a small children's play area, a few children, and Rosie is standing at a tower putting cars onto a ramp. Mycroft speaks again. “Just a webcamera for now. They can’t see you. And given the environment, the microphone is turned off."

The screen is then devoid of all people, the nanny seen following a grinning, escaping Rosie to an area off camera.

Mycroft smiles a bit, "An imperfect system, to be sure."

John's nurse comes back in then, checking on them. "How's the deep breathing going, John?" There is an answering lift of the shoulders, and he complies. "We'll see about changing this mask over to a regular nasal cannula shortly, you lose the aerosol but then we can start with the IS," and she taps the device still sitting there and catches a glimpse of the tablet. "Is this your daughter?"

Sherlock answers for him. "Well, if she'd bother to sit still ever, yes."

"Cute idea." The nurse glances at the heart monitor, checks the chest tube again, and reminds him to slow down his breathing. The restraints that had been untied long ago, she removes completely, taking a few moments to closely inspect his cast, the colour, movement, and sensation of the fingers protruding from it. Sherlock expects her to bin the no-longer-needed wrist restraints, but she wraps them together and stows them in the closet. Though he says nothing, he is displeased by even the notion that they might be needed again and decides to bin them at his earliest opportunity.

"Thirsty," John whispers.

"Mouth swabs," she retorts, having explained this to him before. "Feel free." She presses a fresh one into the small cup of a few ice chips and water, offers it out to him, then lifts the mask free while helping him use it.

The screen on the tablet flashes, then disconnects. Sherlock's mobile buzzes, and he reads the text to John, simply that they are heading out for a bookstore reading for toddlers and then will go back to the hotel rooms for Rosie's nap, that they can try again later.

John nods but looks a bit stricken, and Sherlock cannot help but think that now that John was awake, this was going to be much more unpleasant on some fronts. A glimpse at Mycroft, and it is apparent that he is thinking the same thing: it's not enough. At the same time, it’s going to have to be.

"So," Sherlock begins, ready to distract John and amuse himself at the same time, "brother, looks like you've brushed up against some remnants of public transportation use, your trouser leg on the left has a smudge behind your calf. And there's a trace of some unacceptably foreign gravel in the tread of your left shoe."

They fuss at each other for a few minutes, nothing too caustic or animated, and when John's eyes drift closed again they let it dwindle down and stop.

Mycroft takes a quick step toward the door, nods for Sherlock to follow. "I do apologise, at least a little, for the interruption. Looked like perhaps ..."

"Sod off," Sherlock whispers. "The tablet, the webcamera, a good idea. Truly." He recalls the wistful look, though, in John's eye. "For the short term."

"Yes, it won't placate him for long," Mycroft agrees. "I was concerned. Had to see for myself," he confesses. "Though I'm headed back to London this evening. I'll be taking you to dinner first."

"I'm not going."

"The nurses report that you barely leave. That you're uninterested in taking care of yourself."

"I'm busy with Rosie, morning and night. I've been here otherwise. I'm --" and his words trail off while in his head, the end of the sentence possibilities swim: fine, good, worried, longing, surviving, coping,  _lonely_. The last word prods his mouth back into gear, and he opts for " -- managing."

"Heaven knows you can squeak by on very little sleep. But when was your last meal?"

Sherlock purses his lips together hard, doesn't answer. He doesn't think Rosie's leftover toast edges from ... was that yesterday? ... count.

Mycroft's brow raises. "We could find somewhere close?"

"He's not going to want me to leave." _He needs me here_ , Sherlock doesn't add.

"Or perhaps you are loathe to leave him."

"He's a long way from home, and I'm all he's --" _Fine, yes, I don't want to leave him either._

"You still need to take care of yourself. To eat." Mycroft sounds impatient. "I'll call for take-away, have it delivered here. I'm concerned about you, Sherlock. And I can see very clearly that you --"

"Just because your life revolves around food does not mean that everyone else's needs to as well."

"Now listen to m--"

 _"Piss off,"_ Sherlock says again, emphatically, though he is distracted by movement in John's room as he stirs in bed, partially asleep, and even with closed eyes, his hand restlessly raises to his face. Awake now, though obviously not thinking clearly, John quickly pulls the mask off and away from his mouth and nose. A few steps, a conflict of hands, as Sherlock, bedside, tries to reason with John, pull his hand from the edge of the mask so that he can replace it. The monitor alarms abruptly, brightly, high pitched, bringing two nurses to the door. His oxygen level has plummeted and is alarming, a high alert alarm tone. Sherlock twines his fingers through John's to occupy it while the nurses both work to replace John's oxygen mask as he is restless. He turns his head side-to-side, the pillow crinkling under him, the feeding tube dangling a bit under the holder, and the nurse tucks the mask against his face for the moment to at least let the oxygen flow for him. His casted hand has come up to get involved, and though one of the nurses is offering John calm, clear directions, he isn't listening. The overhead light is switched on, and Sherlock can see how dusky John's colour has become, just in the very short time that the mask was displaced.

"Hey, open your eyes, John. Breathe deep." The nurse points John's head in her direction drawing him to look at her in close proximity, and his open eyes become more focused under her instructions. "Good, you listening now?" There is a nod, and he tries to speak, but with the mask and everything else, his words are not understandable. "No talking. Just breathe." He complies, seems to calm, and his eyes seek out Sherlock, who has taken refuge at the foot of the bed, out of the way of the staff, letting them attend to John. The nurse is patient and kind, trying to soothe him. "You really need to keep the mask on for now. No exceptions, okay?" He nods, mumbles something else that Sherlock can't understand, but the nurse must've. "Right, pneumonia, atelectasis, shallow breathing while you're asleep. You've no reserve right now." John nods, and while Sherlock tries to suss out the meaning of 'reserve,' he realises the intensivist, Dr. Snyder, is standing next to him too, watching.

He takes it all in, listens to the brief update from the nurse, and approaches John. "So, not unexpected, some hypoxia, hypoventilation. Given your rib injury, collapsed lung, pain, fatigue. Deep breathing, slow. I heard the nurse mention alveolar recruitment to you earlier, and that's completely your mission for today." He summarises, again, the course of hospitalisation, waits for John to nod, and then says, "We're probably going to place you on Bi-PAP tonight, overnight at least, while you're sleeping. You're familiar with it?"

John nods, but Sherlock clears his throat, a brow raised in question.

"Okay, so particularly for cases of hypoventilation, the shallow breathing John reverts to when he's asleep for instance, there is a mask that we use." He gestures to his own face, making a circle with his fingers around his mouth and nose. "It fits tight here, supports John's breathing when he inspires - breathes in," and Sherlock nods and tries not be annoyed at the physician speaking a bit down to him, "and providing gentle pressure against his exhalation. The dual process helps keep airways open, supports both respiration or the mechanics of breathing as well as oxygen delivery or the ventilation within the lung. Gas exchange, as it were."

"Will it be uncomfortable for him?" Sherlock asks, thinking that having a mask strapped tightly enough to maintain a seal against his skin would be rather claustrophobic.

There is a faint frown from the doctor, which is telling. The answer he speaks is probably more for John's benefit. "It's snug, of course, just because of what it has to do. But it's a far cry better than the breathing tube, and he should be able to finally get some quality sleep without us needing to wake him up every time he falls asleep and his breathing gets shallow." John's numbers have mostly returned to normal ranges, Sherlock can see, and both the doctor and the nurse take a moment to listen to John's chest, front and back, while he awkwardly leans forward and breathes deeply as they cue him. The grimace is hard to watch, and Sherlock wishes he was closer, to hold a hand at least, help take that look of fear off John's face. "Until then, I think we'll try an oxygen modality called high-flow. It uses a special cannula, will leave your mouth free, should prove a little more comfortable than this." John mumbles something again that might have sounded like he'd never heard of it, and the doctor assures him, "It's a very good option that can deliver high percentages of oxygen. It will work best for you, keep your levels up enough, when you're awake. So let's give it a try, see how things go." More mumbling. "Yes," and Dr. Snyder smiles, "you can see about talking a little more, it'll certainly be easier to understand you. You'll need to give the incentive spirometer some use when your mouth is free." The mutter John returns with is quite clearly, again, water. "Not until you're cleared by speech therapy tomorrow. Too much swelling, risk of aspiration. Answer's not going to change, but I appreciate your determination." With a rather fond, tolerant smile, he nods at them both, leaves the room, along with one of the others who'd come in to help. 

The nurse standing there pats John's shoulder. "I know. Mouth swabs get disgusting, but they're better than nothing." Scowling, John looks particularly dejected. "Trust me, John, almost everyone in this situation, after six days, fails their first swallow eval. And then you're stuck with thickened water, pureed ... turkey and mashed potatoes with thickened gravy. So bear with it, wait until tomorrow, enjoy the tube feeding. You know, extra protein twice a day for next summer's beach body." The scowl deepens, and John rests his head back into the pillow, his eyes closing. "Oh come on, be a good sport, play along," the nurse teases lightly. "Not going to give us a nice beach pose? Flex your muscles a little?" Her tone is careful and tentative, suggesting some interaction and not focusing on the negatives about where they all are.

He raises one eyebrow, one eye opening partially, and presents the roomful with another Watson, one-fingered salute.

"Charming." It is Mycroft's voice from the doorway again.

"And, now you're here it's completely deserved," Sherlock waits for John to do it again, but both of his hands stay quiet.

The nurse offers them a few housekeeping items, the plan for the rest of the afternoon, and leaves too.

While the Holmes brothers look on, John's eyes stay closed and his body still, but he is clearly not asleep. His body is not relaxed, his heart rate stays high, and they can just tell. Mycroft taps Sherlock on the shoulder and points with his head toward the hallway. Once they are out of the room again, "Why don't you take a walk or something?" Mycroft asks. "I'll stay here until you return."

"No."

"I think a change of scenery would do you good."

"I get that every morning, every night."

"You know I worry about you."

"Don't you have a country to run? You're welcome to leave. Anytime."

Mycroft takes a careful look at Sherlock, decides his feistiness is a good sign, and now that he's seen for himself that Doctor Watson has at least made a little progress, he may do just that. "You should know that I took care of that other thing you'd requested." Sherlock gives him a blank look. "About his flat."

Right. Sherlock recalls that he had asked Mycroft to terminate John's lease agreement so that John and Rosie could move back to Baker Street. It seemed that the eventuality of his being ready for getting out of the hospital is so far into the future that he can't imagine it. "Okay. Good." He can hear John stir again, and at the moment wants nothing more than for Mycroft to leave them alone. "Thanks."

Mycroft's look is guarded. "I'll send something over for you, for dinner. Perhaps something for the nurses, too, for having to put up with the both of you." Mycroft’s cocky brow raises, and nonverbally he adds, _Particularly you._

More alarms, low-alert ones this time, come from in John's room, and they reenter to find him wide-eyed, pushing himself into a higher sitting position - awkward, given the cast and the chest tube and the oxygen mask tubing. "You trying to cough?" Sherlock realises. "Here," and he hands him the folded blanket they'd been using to help splint with, and the nurse comes back in to help with the process. The phlegm is thick and difficult to move upward, and eventually John gets tired of it, whispers something, and stops trying. The nurse offers deep suctioning to the back of his throat, which he refuses, and she leaves the equipment nearby in case he changes his mind.

"Respiratory should be here in a few minutes with your new high-flow, and that might help." John looks skeptical. "It'll be something different anyway."

Mycroft gives them both another glance. "I'll leave you both to it then."

John reaches up to pull the mask away just a bit from his face. "Thanks for the tablet. You have no idea," he begins and then Sherlock can see his eyes get a little more glittery.

"Bring it back to London with you is all, Dr. Watson." They say little else, and Sherlock and Mycroft nod at each other once, and then the room is minus one person.

Over the course of the next few hours, the high flow oxygen is connected, and, as the doctor advised them, it is somewhat more comfortable and his oxygen levels stay high while he is awake. His first tries on the incentive spirometer are pitiful and painful, but he is able to expectorate a bit of sputum afterward which he agrees was beneficial. One of the care technicians comes in, helps him brush his teeth with an actual toothbrush, to rinse and spit, and brings supplies for a shave later. After a bit, when he falls asleep, there are more alarms again, and they wake John from time to time when necessary. The afternoon drags, a bit, with John just uncomfortable and Sherlock at a bit of a loss. They make contact with the nanny again, and Rosie is napping, but she connects the camera for a little bit and he watches her sleep in her cot, but Sherlock can see that it is somewhat upsetting and frustrating for John so they end it.

A delivery person arrives, with a small container of Indian take-away for Sherlock, and a sampler tray for the nursing staff, who almost all traipse in to say thank you for, and Sherlock tucks it away to eat later.

"You can have it, eat it here," John says. He's done fairly well not overdoing his speaking. "I don't care."

"I'll wait. It's fine."

John grows quiet again, tired and trying to stay awake, and finally Sherlock decides, "Just get the Bi-PAP placed, take a good nap, will you?" He's resisted so far, but Sherlock can see the exhaustion growing. "It's pretty late, we can just call it a day if you want."

"I'm tired," John admits. "But, I ... uh ... I'm a little afraid to fall asleep."

"The mask will help, you know. All kinds of alarms, back up settings, they said. Better for you and you can sleep then without worrying so much."

The nurse comes in then, with a few meds and to check on them, but she reiterates what Sherlock has just said so she must have been at the door for a moment. "Agreed. You've been awake a long time. And if you're feeling a little peckish, it might be because your temp's on the way up again." She points to the monitor, where John's core temp is being monitored. Thirty-eight point five.

"No wonder," Sherlock is almost relieved that there's a physical reason why John isn't looking too good, and then realises that having a fever again is perhaps another problem altogether. He locks eyes with the nurse, who is also a little concerned. "More antibiotics?" he asks.

"He's still on those in the intravenous. This is just paracetamol here. Plus a few of his other routine meds, something to block stomach acid, something to help with mood-stabilisation. The paracetamol will help with pain, too, along with the fentanyl." She explains that she'll give him his meds and then call respiratory to set up the mask, assuring him of the plan. "A short rest, to sleep, will do you a world of good."

When the nurse has finished administering the slurry of the liquid medications down the feeding tube, the respiratory therapist comes with yet another piece of equipment on a pole. "I'll get this hooked up in a few minutes, okay?" and she disappears again.

"What if I can't stand it on my face?" John asks, looking at the set up with a bit of worry. There is a clear plastic mask and a bunch of stretchy straps and clips that obviously will hold it with some pressure against his face. 

"You'll be all right. I'm sure they'll help, get it fit correctly." Sherlock inspects a bit of the set-up. "It's pretty cushioned," he tries to be assuring. "And I'll stay until you're all ... connected and doing okay with it, all right?"

The relief on John's face is obvious, apparent, and profound. "That'd be great."

"My pleasure," Sherlock says back, low, and their eyes meet. On John's face - gratitude, relief, something else perhaps. He'd been, apparently, quite anxious about it.

++

The straps go on, the mask fits fairly well, and John is finally relaxed enough that he gives Sherlock a thumbs up. His eyes are still wide, his shoulders still more raised than usual, but he is breathing easily, his chest rising fully, and he seems to be tolerating the new therapy.

"Well, that's a better hand gesture than your usual." Sherlock smiles at him, at the thumbs up, notes that his heart rate is better, his temperature has already gone down, and that he's breathing evenly, and with more depth. "I'll set up the camera again tonight, if you want. Maybe in forty-five minutes or so when I get home? So you can see Rosie again before turning in for the night. Will you be able to reach it from there?"

John nods.

"All you have to do is hit accept. If you don't answer, that's fine. Please don't stay awake just for that. She's fine, okay? And she's not going to be aware of the difference one way or the other." Sherlock is finding it also hard for himself, thinking of leaving, not being there. What if John needs something and doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to bother anyone. Or if the mask falls off, and his levels drop, or if he tires and needs invasive ventilation again. If he wants Sherlock to come back and keep him company (impossible, he won't, there's Rosie to consider). "You have your --?"

John holds up the call bell, gestures toward the door, though his eyes are a little nervous.

"And you'll use it if you need something?"

A dramatic eye-roll is quite visible over the mask, and predictably, John gives him the finger again. He makes no sound, but Sherlock is fairly certain John told him to just go already, his lips moving under the clear plastic mask.

"Okay, just checking you're still okay," Sherlock recognises the window of opportunity to leave while they are both managing to cope, and he glances down, wants to touch but doesn't know how to without making it even more awkward. "I'll be back first thing in the morning."

John nods, swallows, and watches Sherlock long after the swirl of Sherlock's long coat is out of his view.

++

In different parts of the hospital, two men are feeling the emptiness of separation quite acutely. Both of them are frowning.

One of them is a patient in the trauma unit. He aches all over except for the body parts that are giving him exquisite pain. The other is striding toward the exit, going 'home' to a two-year-old. They are each wondering about the signals of the other, the eye contact, the touches, the changes on the horizon.

Another man rides in a hired limo en route to catch a plane, pondering the situation, the unsettled dynamics, the words not spoken. He has kept secrets all his life, and knows too well the high price of regret. There is the twinge of feeling slightly encouraged, however, as when he'd first arrived, he had witnessed some rather intimate, heated eye contact and physical boundaries ignored, them sitting much closer than platonic. And, in the case of both his brother as well as Dr. Watson, he has become quite proficient, quite fluent at being able to read subtext.

He smiles. They'll get there, he thinks. And if they need a little encouragement - which he doubts, once the floodgates open - he knows he can find a few ways to help them along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artist's choice of music for the tedious, painstaking task of gluing pottery: [Pachelbel's Canon in D](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xu5TlSXEzzs)
> 
> If you enjoy Pachelbel's Canon, the Piano Guys have a great version [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LV5_xj_yuhs)
> 
> ++
> 
> I had initially planned on having Rosie come in before this chapter ended, but the chapter grew long and _Mycroft_ and John's breathing and all.
> 
> It was a challenge to balance the wisdom of bringing Rosie to John with the reality of how it probably would go and the fact that he really ~~wanted~~ needed to see her. Skype would definitely have been bittersweet - _I see but I can't touch_ \- and only temporarily satisfying.
> 
> ++
> 
> It's very common for someone with rib fractures (with or without a chest tube) to have reluctance to inhale deeply or do anything that could stimulate a cough. Rib fractures hurt like a bitch. Bi-PAP is a temporary airway adjunct, which stands for bilevel positive airway pressure and does exactly what this chapter describes. In addition to assistance with a patient-initiated breath and the maintaining of some positive pressure in the airways, Bi-PAP also has backup ventilation features in case a person stops breathing all-together. And yes, the machine does its share of alarming too. The trickiest thing about managing Bi-PAP is getting a good fit or seal around the mask to prevent air leakage.
> 
> When the nurse says that John has very little "reserve" it simply means that any little exertion depletes what little oxygen there is available, and he could quickly become symptomatic.
> 
> ++
> 
> Next chapter (provided I don't sabotage my own plans): A shave. I think the staff is likely too busy so Sherlock might just have to help with that. And an actual visit from Rosie. It's gotta happen, we're all tired of waiting for that.
> 
> Any loose ends, typos, as my usual request, please let me know. Comments can be like Bi-PAP, a temporary bridge to help get from point A to point B.


	10. Finally, Rosie in Person

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so this wasn't an easy one to write. If you are expecting immediate hearts, flowers, and sunshine, remember that Rosie is only two and very out of the environment she is accustomed to. This rendition, this version, is in all likelihood far more realistic than an immediately smooth reunion we would all rather have with Rosie-hugs, John-snuggles, and butterfly kisses. 
> 
> I know. This just sort of ... _happened._
> 
> I want to assure you that they will all be okay.

_The bowl sits back in its original shape, complete yet again, yet it is horridly crossed with fracture lines. Ruined._

_Scars._

_The chunks are delineated with lines in the pottery. A few of them are slightly missing small pieces along the suture lines._

_The artist aches, from the center of his chest and outward, as he looks at the bowl. The fracture lines are all he sees, the dark and random lines crossing, angling, ruining the overall look. The beauty of the paint, the image, the vines and leaves are, to his eye, barely visible any longer. The metallic highlights are relegated to the background under the scarring._

_His thoughts, a breath, a prayer, an invocation:_

_Please. This can be fixed. This can be beautiful again._ _Help me to make this even more beautiful._

_Stretching, he takes his finest brush, bonding lacquer, his expensive collection of gold powder. A folded paper becomes his work area, channels to catch the extra powder. A quick check of the lighting, perfect, the music, hushed._

_The finest pointed brush becomes one with his tingling fingers, dipping into the lacquer, removing just enough excess, and carefully, painstakingly painting along the suture lines. The lacquer is very tacky initially, but it quickly dries just slightly so that the gold powder will adhere, bond, set, harden, and bulge just slightly along the repaired cracks._

_Two suture lines, then three. Gold powder, applied so carefully that he barely breathes as he dusts it on. The gold adheres exactly as it should, beauty over scars. Beauty. Over. Scars._

_His shoulders cramp eventually, and he knows he must stop for the day. The brush set aside for cleaning, the lacquer finally capped, the powder a fine layer in front of him, and he finishes for the time being._

_The folded paper is carefully moved, tapped, the extra gold returned to the bottle he usually keeps locked away._   _It only is brought to the workbench for special projects such as this._

_Project only partially completed, he forces himself not to stare too hard at it. The faintest hint, an echo, a whisper, of the beginnings of the intrinsic beauty peek shyly back at him. Oh, there you are. Hello again. It's okay. It will be fine._

_I've got you._

_Faintly, in the background, he hears the low tones of music begin to play once more. There is the single note of a foundation chord, subtly, humbly. Nobly. In his mind, a full, rich chord builds, from the ground up, in the near future, a secret garden in those moments just before everything bursts in rampant blooming, and it gives him inner peace. An overwhelming fullness in his chest grows, and he lets the tears form, converge, and spill down his cheeks._

++

Sherlock finds the nanny ready to leave, and she tells him that Rosie's dinner just needs to be heated. Sherlock heats everything up, his Indian from Mycroft, Rosie's chicken pieces, and they take seats at the table. He sets the tablet on the table, presses connect, and moments later, the video call goes through. It is then that John realises Mycroft had lied, that Rosie could not see him, when in actuality, a small thumbnail does actually show. He agrees that it is better that John remain unaware of that, and he will not point it out to Rosie either. Though it is small, Sherlock can see John's bed, John reclining there, quietly, watching. In the bed, his form looks small, fragile, _wounded_. He wants to stare, chooses instead to turn from it. He will help Rosie eat, give John something uplifting (he hopes) to look at. He makes sure to draw out Rosie's at-times silliness, her animation, her smiles. Hopefully there might also be some sustenance.

Rosie does not disappoint, though Sherlock manages to egg her on a bit. She grins, she chews, she plays with her cup, she giggles when he makes ridiculous sounds. But it does not last too long, and he dashes to the sink to grab a flannel for her face and cleans her up. A few times, he sneaks a glance at the tablet to find John still awake, watching. The mask is still on. Once Rosie gets down from the small chair she'd been sitting in, he watches her a few moments as she finds a bag of toys to unload. He writes a quick note to John, not sure if he'll be able to see it well enough, but he holds it to the camera anyway.

Good night. Sleep well. See you tomorrow.

On the small thumbnail video, he sees John notice, the nurse in the room, and they both reach toward the tablet on John's overbed table. Screenshot.

A small, Rosie-sized crashing sound distracts him then, the bag completely overturned that scatters toys everywhere. She howls a few giggles, and he disconnects the call and goes to play with her for a few minutes before bedtime. 

++

"She's here." John is breathless. "Oh god, she's _here."_

Sherlock's mobile has just buzzed, and he and John read the incoming text and exchange glances. They are both a little on edge. "Maybe I should have shaved," John worries aloud.

The nurse and physical therapists had laboured to get the morning, the early afternoon arranged so that, when Rosie arrived, John would be out of bed in a chair. But the physical therapists had found that his right foot was still quite swollen, point tender, and they would not allow him to do any weight bearing until an orthopedist had cleared him for that activity. It had been X-rayed on admission, was negative for fracture, but they insisted that the transfer to a chair would be very simply stand, pivot, and sit. 

The chest tube is also still in, though the suction has been discontinued, but it is tucked out of sight behind the tall-backed chair John sits in. The oxygen mask, the Bi-PAP, and the high flow set ups are all stowed away into corners of the room, somewhat out of sight, too, and John is wearing a standard nasal cannula.

The feeding tube is gone, and John has managed a rather disappointing (in his opinion) lunch of clear liquids - broth, jello, juice. The nurse assures him that something more substantial can probably be obtained for supper, provided that lunch is tolerated, there is no obvious aspiration from weak swallowing, and the doctor advances his diet order.

The intravenous medications have all been capped, and when he needs it, John gets pain pills now instead of the IV forms.

The urinary catheter has also been removed, and John quite generously has filled the urinal a few times already, as all the fluids from his trauma resuscitation and early days on the ventilator are starting to shift around, equilibrate. As he continues to get rid of unneeded fluids, autodiuresis, his weight will go down along with all the swelling that is still mostly just annoying, his arms, fingers, and legs. Even his face is still a little swollen. The sutures over his eye have been removed and replaced with small, sterile strips of adhesive, steri-strips, that eventually will come off on their own.

The nurse gives him a final look-see, tucks a few wires out of sight as much as she can, and gives him a cautious gesture. "Short visit, remember."

"I know." He shifts in the chair, feeling the rib edges grating still, and feels even more nervous when confirmation texts arrive and Sherlock leaves the room to meet the nanny in the waiting room. He will carry Rosie quickly to John's room and close both the curtain and the door, and the nanny will be close by in case it doesn't go well. John tries not to count that it has been eight days since he's seen her. It feels like much longer than that, a lifetime, an eternity.

John tries not to be too anxious as he hears Sherlock's familiar steps in the hallway, and then he appears in the doorway, talking quietly to Rosie as they enter the room.

Rosie follows Sherlock's pointing finger to where he is indicating John, sitting, waiting, smiling.

She takes one look at him, then immediately turns her head in toward Sherlock's neck, hiding her face, clinging with what appears to be desperation. It almost looks as if she's trying to climb inside Sherlock's skin.

"Hi sweetheart," John says airily, quietly, hoping that his voice isn't too different.

Sherlock holds out a palm toward John requesting silence, and he sinks into the folding chair that is in the opposite corner from where John is sitting. "And so this is where Daddy has been, getting better. Remember we talked about him being hurt? Well, he's been resting and missing you and now he's a little better." She clings tightly, still, a human koala bear, desperate and digging in with her toes and hands. "It's okay. We'll just sit here for a while," he says, a big hand rubbing her back gently. "Maybe your daddy and I will just talk a bit while you sit here nice with me, okay?" With a very mild nudge, Sherlock scoots sideways in the chair, thinking that perhaps Rosie would grow curious and turn her head to look at John again, but she is quite attuned to his position as well as John's and turns her head the entirely other direction to avoid him. "Did you want to tell daddy what you had for lunch?"

The curls on the back of Rosie's head shake very slightly side to side.

"Or maybe that you had a very lovely nap with your favourite blanket?"

No response.

"Maybe Daddy could tell us what he had for lunch, then."

John's face is positively stricken, and the men lock eyes with something between painful apology and abject helplessness. "Oh, you know. Nothing too exciting. Bit of soup, bit of jello." With his words, Rosie seems to be trying to burrow even further into Sherlock's neck. "Orange jello." She is having none of it. "Love to hear about your lunch, though." _Dear lord, what have we been remanded to, reduced to, food? What next, the bloody weather?_

There is another wordless shake of Rosie's head, and Sherlock needs to reach up to loosen her grip on his shirt given that his skin is caught between her fingers, her vice-like grip on him, pinching.

"I have your picture here, Rosie-bug," John says quietly, tapping at the frame that is on the table next to him. "And oh, did you want to see this silly thing I have on my arm?" He taps that next, but she shakes her head again and makes no inclination that she is ever going to turn around. "It's blue," John offers, weakly. He stares at it, then. "It's blue," he repeats, as if noticing for the first time, mostly under his breath. To Sherlock, he asks, "Why is it blue?"

Sherlock fidgets just a little. "They called from the surgical suite, wanted to know what colour you would probably want."

"You chose blue for me?"

"I was tempted to get bright neon pink just to spite you."

"Rosie might've liked pink better."

Sherlock leans in a bit closer to the little girl's ear, "Is that true, Rosie? Would you rather Daddy have a pink cast, or the blue one he's already got?"

"Geen," she whispers and then retreats further into her shell, burrowing impossibly deeper, and Sherlock tries hard not to sigh at her retreat.

"Green, like your blanket?" Sherlock asks, reaching down to pull that very object from the small bag he'd packed for them that morning, that the nanny had brought as he'd asked her to. Without a word, Rosie snatches at the blanket, pulls it to herself.

There is a nod.

"Oh, guess what else I brought?" Sherlock begins, "I have a book here, your favourite, about the cat. I'd like to read it to you?"

She shakes her head very quickly, with more animation, and clings hard, her feet still pressing in and her one hand grabbing hard. Her other hand, Sherlock realises, is on a mission. Her head turns just a bit, her ear flattening out against his chest, and her thumb ends up very quietly in her mouth. Only then does she show any sign of relaxing a minute, little bit. Almost reflexively, Sherlock turns his own head so that his chin rests overtop her head. Comfort, protection, _you’re okay little one._

"What's this now?" John asks very softly, and though it's not terribly outwardly apparent, Sherlock can hear both the disappointment and disapproval in his voice.

Sherlock raises only his eyes to stare at him, and answers him quietly in return, making sure to keep his own inflection very light, gentle. "Do you really discredit her problem solving skills, John? Really and truly? She has found a way to self-comfort, a coping skill, and far be it from me to do anything about that right now." He smiles, to minimise his criticism. "Far be it from you, too. Long as it helps her get through, yeah?"

"I know, I know, it's just --" His exhale is loud in the room, and Sherlock wishes he was closer, holding his hand at least, reaching out with some sort of physical contact. He misses it, craves it, swallows hard as he snuggles with John's daughter.

"We're doing the best we can, here," Sherlock adds, mildly defensive, knows he shouldn't have, and then softens it with, "Rosie's handling all of this very well, aren't you?" he murmurs into her curls.

John shifts uncomfortably in the chair, one of his many wires sliding off his shoulder and catching on the arm of the chair, his sudden change of position catching him at a bad angle, and there is a sharp intake of breath as pain strikes. He tries to untangle things on his own, can't.

Reflexively, Sherlock makes the slightest adjustment in his own posture as if he's going to spring over to help, to fix the problem, but as Rosie feels his inclination to move, she grabs him suddenly with both hands, cries out, clings, a frantic pawing motion at him. Immediately, Sherlock relaxes, but Rosie does not.

"I'm okay," John says after a bit, breathless, his motions stiff as he does finally rearrange the wires so they are no longer caught, pulling.

They make just a few minutes of small talk, both of them working hard to find something benign enough to talk about. Occasionally there is enough quiet in the room to hear the faintest sucking noises, Rosie having found her thumb again. The elephant in the room is largely ignored, and Sherlock continues to hold Rosie, rub her back slightly, and occasionally pry her pinching fingers, her fist off his skin.

Though it is a heart-breaking realisation, Sherlock is acutely aware that he will need to take Rosie out before the entire association becomes negative, and John seems to be waiting for it, delaying it, changing the subject a few times, a quick sentence interjected when Sherlock looks at him with a painful expression. 'Remember that time ...', 'Saw a visitor walk by, reminded me ...', and finally, 'Never realised how much a toothbrush ...'

Sherlock holds up a hand before John can say anything further about oral hygiene. "I think I'll just take Rosie out then." Having to say the words tears him up a little, and he can barely stand to look over at John.

John looks even more stricken; Rosie nods once, her thumb never leaving her mouth.

"Wait," John breathes, and his fingers without conscious intent reach out in Rosie's direction.

Sherlock knows, knows, _knows_ that John wants more than anything to hold her, he wants a hug from Rosie. He wants to touch, to feel, to receive comfort just from her close proximity. Reassurance. Even as he knows, he is just as aware that it is not going to happen. Not the way John wants it, anyway.

Not this visit. Not yet.

He stands, clutches Rosie close, his hands holding her snugly, enveloping her almost as fully as he can possibly manage, and he takes a step toward John. "Let's tell daddy goodbye, and that we'll see him again very soon." He brings Rosie close to John, close enough for John to touch and feel, his face into the back of her neck, his arm brushing best he can over her arm. John inhales, rubs his daughter's back. She tenses again quickly, and just as fast, Sherlock retreats, carries Rosie from the room.

Ripping off the plaster - all the pain all at once.

The nanny is waiting, but Sherlock takes a seat with Rosie in the waiting room, letting her relax again. He tilts her in his lap, takes the book he'd mentioned earlier and had carried in to John's room with them, reads it to her, and chats with her just a bit before he feels comfortable enough to surrender a calm, more settled Rosie back to the nanny. She's fine. He watches them leave, and enters the unit to return to John again.

When he arrives at John's room, the curtain is pulled, and another nurse catches him standing slightly puzzled at the very uncharacteristic finding of being shut out. "I think they're just getting him back in bed." Her delivery completely implies that it was perhaps much more than that. "Want me to come out and get you when they're done?" He hears:  _You should probably go wait elsewhere._

Sherlock's hand raises toward the curtain, falters, and he fights down the sudden wave of nausea and worry. "John?" he whispers, certainly loud enough to carry into the room.

He can hear movement, equipment, furniture being adjusted, of linens and footsteps, siderails and the motorised bed being raised or lowered. Words too quiet for him to hear are exchanged, and the murmuring, being left out of it, seems to call his hand. A call to action, indeed.

He opts not to knock or announce himself, and steps inside.

++

"That was awful." John's words are calm, thick and almost emotionless. "Terrible."

The nurses had reattached everything, straightened lines and wires, propped every limb up on pillows, and finally left the room in the cool, awkward stoniness that Sherlock had stepped into.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting it to be quite that ..." Sherlock trails off as he watches John take a shuddering breath. "It could have been worse," he offers weakly. "She could have been screaming, or ..."

"Just shut it, okay?" John has much more to say, Sherlock can see it in every muscle movement, every twitch, every blink. "You have no idea, none, what that was like." While Sherlock is scanning his immediate consciousness for something appropriate, a response that doesn't involve yelling or being more hurtful to John - his brother's voice, _my, my, progress, dear Sherlock, consideration for another, sentiment?_ \- John speaks again. "I'm tired. You can go now." There is enough of a wobble in John's voice that Sherlock knows that tears might soon be falling. Either that, or he will certainly drift off to sleep just to escape the unpleasantness.

As much as he doesn't blame John for it, he has no inclination to leave. If John's going to have a meltdown, it will not happen alone. "No, I don't think I will."

"Sherlock, _please_ ," John says in a faint vibrato, and it becomes obvious that John does not want to do this in front of anyone, wants to be left alone. "Don't --"

In silence, Sherlock approaches the door, the curtain, closes both. He returns to John's bedside, where he has been for almost all of the last seven days, puts down the nearest siderail, and lowers himself into a chair. He picks up John's hand, which surprisingly doesn't resist, and holds it a moment, squeezes lightly, and after a few minutes, a few calming, soothing, restorative minutes, he lightens his grip. "You've made amazing progress over the last day. The visit wasn't what you wanted, but tomorrow --"

His words are interrupted by sharp, overhead tones paging a medical response team to another room of the trauma unit. There is the urgent sound of providers coming to help, of nurses responding, equipment being moved. In the flurry of activity, John and Sherlock hear the blatant reminders that a lot of other terrible, the life-changing or life-ending kind of terrible, things happen in hospitals from time to time.

John is quiet, and Sherlock's mind whirls for a few minutes imagining a few _what if_ scenarios until he feels something approach, touch his hand. John's hand, palm up, reaching out toward Sherlock, his fingers still puffy but warm, searching, seeking. Inviting. Their hands touch, twist slightly, slide together, their fingers interlocking.

Their eyes meet and Sherlock's gradually appearing grin is somewhat lopsided. "I'm just going to say it. What if ...? That could have been you. This last week, I felt like I could barely breathe." He hesitates.

"Me too." John's smile is also askew. "You know, the breathing."

A small, shared chuckle defuses the tension. "Right. And we'll try again tomorrow, with Rosie. If we can, getting you into some clothes would be helpful. She's never seen you in," and he gestures rather disgustedly at John's patient gown, snaps and ugly paisley pattern today. "I should have realised."

"I was not prepared for her, for it not to be..." His words trail off, but Sherlock nods anyway in understanding.

"We just can't, neither of us, lose sight of the larger picture."

"I know. We'll get by." John seems a bit more relaxed, restful even. His head tips back into the pillow. "I'm exhausted."

"I would imagine. You've been in bed for a week. Longer." Sherlock looks hard at John, wonders how and when and what to say. So many words, so many insights, and Sherlock has no idea where to begin. He opts for safe, housekeeping issues. "I'll bring along something to wear tomorrow."

John is shaking his head. "It'll be impossible until the chest tube comes out." He considers the heart monitor leads, too. "This we can work around. But not the other." His fingers find the chest tube connectors, the long rubber tubing that snakes down into the plastic chamber. "I'm pretty sure none of the nurses here, in any ICU actually, are going to be very happy if any of the patients want to get dressed."

"It's a control thing."

"It's an access thing, actually, a critical care mindset. If anything happens, clothing can delay ..." All the talking, the explanation, triggers some hesitation as John begins coughing, and both of them focus on finding and then applying the folded blanket John's been splinting with, in holding it snugly to the sore areas of his chest, of waiting while he coughs, catches his breath, coughs again.

The bedside monitor alarms, and Sherlock gives him the data, the readout, the update - pulse ox eighty four, rising to eighty-eight, heart rate in the one-twenties - and over a few minutes, it gets more normal again. He is, however, working a bit harder to breathe with all the exertion.

"Less talking, I suppose," Sherlock says once John has his breath back and the monitor is quiet. "Which suits me fine, because talking is tedious." Sherlock stops as he realises that he has been holding John's hand, lightly, his thumb brushing across the knuckles, a stroking without even being aware of it. Both of them are looking at their joined hands. Was it a caress? "I, uh, sorry," he says, feeling heat in his face.

"No," John mutters, quickly, increasing the hold on Sherlock's hand and preventing him from withdrawing it. "It's fine."

"It's fine," he repeats, and lifts his gaze to find John's smile, his eyes, his entire face focused on him, watching, warm, inviting. "Fine is such a weak word."

"Then choose a different one." John carefully suggests, his voice quiet, his breathing even and non-laboured. _I dare you_ , speaks the faint gleam in his eye.

"Good, very nice." His vocabulary seems to have reverted back to primary school. "Reassuring," he tries again, and John's smile gets a little bigger. "Comfortable." Skeptically, John cocks his head to the side as if challenging him to do better. "Intimate?"

"Better," John says, and the room seems to be getting a bit warmer. "That works. Intimate, yes."

"Yes," and their smiles are both less anxious, more settled. "I did this a lot when you were sedated, on the vent. Just sat here, just like this. For hours." His long fingers again brush lightly over John's. "This is much different, with you awake. Aware of it."

"Want me to sleep?" he whispers.

"Oh, no. Not at all," Sherlock responds. His bright pale eyes latch onto John's, the unspoken plea for understanding going from him to John and back, mirrored images. There is solidarity and connection and a deep, heartfelt desire. There is _want._ For the lousy waters they have already navigated, this seems _just so right_ , even in a setting like this, far from home, just the two of them.

Making a conscious effort not to overthink it, Sherlock lifts at John's hand still linked with his own, intending to bring it to his chin, his face, his jaw, perhaps press his lips against it just very lightly. Thought becomes action, reality. Warm breath, a light exhale, proof of being alive, being together. From Sherlock's face, his nose, to John's hand. John's knuckle rests on Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock can feel his lips twitching, the need to move, to taste, to press a kiss against the hand he's holding. He'd just barely done so, lips lingering, when the door to John's room opens.

An unfamiliar face. "Just making rounds. You doing okay? Need anything?"

Sherlock is ready to ask for privacy, peace and quiet, then follow it up with an annoyed, unwanted deduction, but John speaks up first. "We're good. Fine," he says, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Echoing the words lightly, Sherlock repeats, "Fine," and their hands lower to the bed again, still clasped. His lips are tingling from the earlier contact. 

++

"I was thinking maybe I'd go pick up something for dinner, I'll bring you something if you want." The nanny has assured them that Rosie is doing okay, and that she has hinted at another visit the following day, in the morning, beginning already to prepare Rosie. "We can have dinner together."

"Shepherd's pie," John says immediately. "Cottage pie, if you can't find shepherd's."

The nurse is already shaking her head with exasperated amusement. "Fine. But no choking." They had already discussed advancing his diet to more regular, soft foods, and though John isn't all that hungry, at least having the option for real food is somewhat appealing. Dinner company, too, sounds better than trying to eat alone.

The afternoon passes, and Dr. Snyder comes by to discuss the logistics of moving John out of the ICU the following day. It will, of course, depend on how the night goes, on lung re-expansion, the morning chest X-ray, and an uneventful removal of the chest tube. The doctor tells them both that the improvements have been impressive, remarkable, and that he's certainly stable enough to move to a step-down bed from the trauma ICU team's perspective. "The environment might be nicer for your daughter, too," he says carefully to John.

Sherlock agrees with that, and a few other ideas come to him. Another text arrives, a photo of Rosie blowing bubbles on a park bench, and eventually Sherlock orders dinner and then leaves to go pick it up.

A case manager is at John's bedside when Sherlock returns with their dinner, but conversation halts with no sign that either of them is going to say anything to Sherlock, and the woman says that she'll stop back in when he's out of the ICU. Their visit is a bit awkward, but they manage to eat dinner together. Again, Sherlock is loathe to leave him there by himself. The Bi-PAP, the nurses have said, will probably be placed overnight but only if he needs it, so John can rest undisturbed.

Before Sherlock leaves, he digs something out of his pockets.

"I brought your mobile. I know your fingers are still pretty swollen, but it's charged and if you get desperate, maybe one of the nurses could help you with a text to me or something."

"All else fails, I could call you," John quips, having long observed that mobiles are used less for talking than anything else. "They actually ring, too."

"What?" Sherlock teases. _"They DO?"_

John sighs, looks at his hands, the fingers that were indeed so swollen, and he is able to unlock the phone, but it is quite awkward for him to hold in the casted hand to then use with his other hand. He tries a few more times, then holds it out. "Not today. But it's nice to have, though I doubt I'll need it. Thanks for bringing it." John's mobile is relegated to the overbed table, the far corner.

"We'll connect the web-cam again, from the hotel, Rosie and I, when I get back?"

"That'd be nice, thanks."

Sherlock leaves things set where John can reach them, and texts the nanny as he's exiting the hospital that he's on his way.

++

Sherlock is running later than he likes the next morning when he strides purposefully back into the hospital once more. Some arrangements, a synchronisation with the nanny, a few last minute hugs with Rosie.

John is already sitting in the tall-backed recliner chair when Sherlock arrives. Sherlock's found a button front shirt that he hopes will fit over whatever he needs it to fit over, chest tube or no chest tube. "Hey, you're up again." The chest tube is still in, but to water seal only, as so far anyway, his lung has managed to stay inflated with the suction discontinued. The chest X-ray hasn't been officially read yet, the nurse explains, but they are still hoping to discontinue it later. The nurse is settling him, tucking in a pillow under his cast, and smiles at them both when Sherlock sets down the bag, and then leaves them alone.

John's expression changes drastically. "What did you do?" John's tone is suddenly quite serious. Deadly, even.

Sherlock hesitates. There are a few things that John could be referring to. "What do you mean?"

John is holding his mobile, waggling it slightly. "I got an email from my landlord. My former landlord I should say."

"Oh."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Does it not occur to you that you should talk with people, get permission, discuss things?" John repositions the cannula in his nose, shifting the contact to something less sore. "Did you not think I might actually be a little upset, again, that you just treat me as if I'm irrelevant? Make decisions about me, without me?" He is a little winded, and the monitor over his shoulder alarms. His oxygen saturations have dropped a bit, and his heart rate is up though that is not alarming.

Yet, Sherlock thinks. He slides his coat off, knowing that he has some notes in the inside pocket about transport possibilities, though he hasn't made any final arrangements yet. All of this is also unbeknownst to John as well. But he's looked into the best and easiest way to move John back to London. He's leaning toward a medical air transport, but has information about a privately leased ground ambulance too. He's also looked into some arrangements for Rosie, and can bring that all to pass with a phone call.

Provided he does not anger John beyond reparations.

One of the nurses appears at the door in response to the alarm. Her eyes take in the room, the nature of how urgent the situation was. The frostiness between the men is thick and heavy, and the nurse frowns. "John, are you feeling all right?" She steps to his side just to evaluate the position of the cannula, the flowmeter, the sensor and the possibility that it was just not receiving good data. "Have you used this lately?" she asks quietly, tapping the incentive spirometer. "It helped earlier."

"I haven't." She turns to look at him, given the iciness in his tone. "But I'm thinking about doing some yelling instead, so that should ..." and he clamps down his lips, leaving the sentence unfinished but the energy right there. He is absolutely seething and radiating annoyance.

"Um, yeah. Whatever it takes," she chuckles, then, shoots a sideways glance at Sherlock. "How about I close the door but keep an eye on the numbers?"

Sherlock pulls up a bit, standing tall, challenging her and thinking about cutting off her path of escape, her route to the door. "Is there anyone here other than me that thinks that's a right _bad_ idea?"

"You're on your own," she teases back. Another astute glance at John and the monitor, and she adds, "Maybe not too much longer out of bed, though?"

"Wait a minute," Sherlock begins.

The nurse shakes her head at him, as if surprised.

He takes a step directly into her path, but she outright laughs and darts to one side. Chastising, she adds, "Stop messing with my patient, yeah?" She peers around Sherlock to grin at John. "Don't overdo it."

He smirks, and thankfully, there is the hint of a sparkle in his eye. A mischievous gleam.

"Call bell?"

John nods, flicks his eyes to it. "Yup."

As she said, she closes the door behind her, and Sherlock can feel the faint nigglings of fear settle over him. But relief too, because more importantly, _God_ , he has missed _this_ John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no way John can fly with a pneumothorax. Just so that's clear. Ground transport, Sherlock. CHEST recommends waiting at least 1-3 weeks after the pneumothorax resolves.
> 
> Shepherd's pie is made with lamb. Cottage pie, beef.
> 
> ++
> 
> Right, so I never got to the shaving part.
> 
> And there will be Rosie-hugs, John snuggles, and butterfly kisses in the next chapter. [Author chuckles maniacally, knowing that there are no guarantees. The road to Johnlock is paved with good intentions!]
> 
> Anyone want particulars about chest tube discontinuation? Or should we just let that happen outside of the actual writing?


	11. Moving Things Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the last chapter, John had just found out that Sherlock had made a decision about John's living arrangements without telling him. There had been a veiled threat about doing some yelling as a substitute for using his incentive spirometer.

_The bowl, finally, stands complete. The artist pushes back from the pedestal where he has been working on the bowl, the brush in his hand that rests on his leg. The brush is no longer needed._

_Each scar, each suture line, has been carefully painted with a thin line of lacquer and dusted with gold powder. The powder has been applied such that it forms a very faintly raised line over each repaired crack._

_The beautiful painting is visible again from under the gold seams. The leaves, vines, fruit, and metallic highlights that the artist had painted, had crafted, had created earlier, simply shines._

_The scars - the deliberate breaking, resetting, repairing, embellishing - are precious. Enhanced breaks, the irregular pattern, the carefully repaired pottery, are all unique. For as much as the artist, the craftsman, prepares, there is still the variability of the finished product._

_The wounds, inflicted by the artist, leave different marks each time, repaired by the artist._

_The flaws, the imperfections, are embraced. Cherished. Embellished._

_And now, the bowl will sit. Set. Dry. Harden. Cure._

_Music fills the studio, each corner resonating, each note, each chord coming together. It is beautiful, harmonious, rich._

_The speakers, however, remain silent as the music continues to serenade them._

++

As soon as the door closes, the curtain as well, he rivets a harsh, murderous glare on Sherlock. John fusses, understandably so, about his lease being terminated. However, despite his threat to the nurses, he was not yelling. Calm. Dead calm, Sherlock realises, was much scarier. "How could you!?" He shifts in the chair, wriggles the fingers at the end of his cast. "More, how _dare_ you!"

"You hated that place."

"It's Rosie's home. Or rather, it was." Sherlock is still, quiet. "You remember Rosie. Cute little thing, maybe this high?" He gestures with a palm. "Did you even stop to think --"

"Her home is with you, and if you'll recall, you used to spend a lot of time at Baker Street."

"You're missing the point."

 _So are you_ , Sherlock wisely chooses not to speak aloud. "I may have..." Sherlock begins, stops, changes directions. "I was trying to help."

"Your version of help is ... rather ridiculous."

"I made that decision when you were ... you were a mess. A critical, unstable, mess. Tubes everywhere, not waking up, or when you did, you were agitated. Obviously, at that time, it looked as if ..." Sherlock's voice hitches as he recalls how awful it was then. How he thought ... worried ... that things would end badly. Beyond badly. "... as if ever getting out of the hospital, recovering at all, was just never going to happen." _I thought you were going to die_ , he doesn't say. He doesn't need to. The brokenness on his face and dripping all through his words speaks it clearly.

"So you just," and John stops, gestures, somewhat taken aback at the emotion that Sherlock let seep into his voice.

"John, you --"

"You still had no right."

"I know." He thinks about throwing the rent situation onto the table, leaves it alone. Because he knows, deep down and on every other level, that John is right. "We can try to undo it. It's only been a couple of days at the most. Perhaps ..."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock runs long fingers through some of the curls, rubs the back of his neck. "I can ask Mycroft to ..." but he trails off with that thought, not wishing to expose a rash decision, a regrettable choice.

"No." John looks a bit settled, suddenly. The gale-force winds of the storm seems to have quickly dropped to gusting breezes, and blown over, leaving the room calmer. John directs a mostly unreadable glance steadily at Sherlock, who is still standing, uncomfortably inside the ICU room. "I didn't say I was,” and his voice quiets, “necessarily, completely opposed to the plan."

Sherlock stares. He wonders if the ICU hallucinations, delirium, confusion is somehow spreading to him, that he heard incorrectly?

"I've missed you." John sits, the frailty and vulnerability vacillating, the hurt and uncertainty, but his voice is unquestioning and sure. “Oh god, I have.”

They stare at each other. Sherlock wants to speak, yearns to add to the returned confession, but as he is afraid - _terrified_ \- of breaking the spell, he simply waits, then a trembling finger rises to pat nervously at his sternum. "Me too," he finally whispers.

John clears his throat a little. "And a bit of extra help might be necessary, for a little bit, until I've got my strength back." He breathes deeply, still wearing the oxygen, and both of them take a look at the monitor. John's heart rate - perfectly normal. He feels on the inside - and hopes he looks on the outside, too - as settled as he's been since before the damned roof at Bart's.

++

Memories. Times that he thought it was over. No more chances. The pool. The tube car.

He does not wish to think about the roof. Worse, dizzying seconds later, the _kerb_. Crimson spreading, motionless. Lifeless.

Other memories. Sherrinford. The well.

London, the acrid smell of smoke, the crackle of leaves, a bonfire. Dazed, hurting, and confused, John can vividly recall the scent, the noise, the fogginess of his head. People milling about, watching, unaware that inside the impending conflagration, he lay in peril.

 _Thoughts, oh god, I'm going to die_. I'm never going to see him again. I'm never going to get the chance... and then, he remembered thinking the smoke inhalation had already started to alter his mental functions, that was when he could hear a desperate voice, Sherlock calling him, calling him. Sherlock. Calling. _Him._

Much like, days previously, a breathing tube, claustrophobic, his world closing in on him, panicking, worried. Each faint rise to painful consciousness, to awareness, enough to agitate him beyond reason.

Oh god, please let me ...

Crackles of the bonfire, steps, the rushing sounds of fire. Hallucinations, so he'd thought, of Sherlock calling his name. And then he'd been dragged out, lay on his back. Mary and Sherlock there in the park, people staring, shocked. Mary, stoic. Sherlock, stressed.

Sherlock had turned away first. Later, he'd puzzled over his thoughts when they'd almost been his last, that it was not losing Mary he'd been worrying about.

Always, Sherlock.

++

Sherlock looks back calmly, seeing everything conveyed in John's eyes, the entirety of his expression. "I never meant --"

"I know," John says, with a somewhat disbelieving shake of his head. He stretches, grimaces as his ribs rub and grate, settles back in the chair. "I know that. You just don't ..."

Sherlock looks on, wanting to help, watching. Seeing.

Another tension dissolves when John smirks. "You probably didn't realise something else, another big deal. Genius.” The term could have been caustic; it is closer to fond. “Steps."

"Steps."

"The real shit of it is that you traded my accessibility, my old flat had two steps. One at the kerb, one at the doorway. Baker Street, on the other hand, a few more than that, yeah?" Sherlock's eyes are wide, as if he can't fathom having got off this easy for his well-intentioned misstep.

"I'll help you."

"Sherlock. Right. Didn't you leave me behind at a crime scene once? Let me take the rap for some vandalism, leave me to pay pretty much every cab we've ever taken. So beg pardon if I'm skeptical." They trade amused glances, the things John didn’t add to the list of help, assistance, over the years, of care not rendered. “Shall I go on?”

"I'll carry you up then."

"You will not." John purses his lip, "Not up seventeen steps, and then up another flight to the bedroom upstairs."

The first movement of Sherlock's mouth, his whole face, is as if to argue, but he wisely opts to stay silent. His eyes, though, sparkle and dance at the words unsaid, the 'that won't be necessary' and the 'I don't think so' not entirely audible but obvious, implied, all the same. What he does say, eventually, is simply, "I'm sure we can work something out."

Another smirk crosses John's face, along with a coloured flush to his face. His fingers randomly find his other arm, the cast, and rub idly along the edge by his elbow. There is another moment, a questioning furrow, a puzzling bouquet of words not spoken. John looks even farther away.

"Please don't make this more complicated than it needs to be. We’ll figure it out."

"I think you’ve quite already blown the lid off complicated yeah?" Johns brow raises, "With moving, oh god, changing addresses. But I'm giving you notice that I'll manage those damn stairs on my own. Somehow. Or not at all."

 _Challenge accepted,_ Sherlock thinks. And then he stares at John's really quite swollen right foot. The hospital-approved, non-skid bottomed gray slipper seems to bring out the hues of green and yellow bruising that slides down his shin, ankle, instep. Hmmm. “Maybe you could scoot up the stairs, backwards. You know, bum first?”

++

They settle in for a bit, waiting on the verdict about chest tube removal. Both of them, for the first time in a very long time, enjoy an actual cup of tea together. John's is from the hospital kitchen, Sherlock's from the cafe on the ground floor.

"This feels like just about the most normal thing ... ever," Sherlock notes. "In a long time, anyway. But your tea, so much better than this." A wrinkle of the nose on Sherlock's face, and they do both agree about that.

"I will be glad to leave the styrofoam and paper behind. But yes, I do look forward to ... yes, making it again."

Sherlock figures now is as good a time as any. "Yes, about that." And he's not looking to annoy John again soon, if at all possible.

"About what? Tea?"

"No, about returning to London." There is hesitation, more to the topic, and Sherlock nervously shifts, hands fidgeting.

With serious eyes, John studies Sherlock as they sit there. He nods, narrows his eyes, and overall gives the impression that he is on to him. "Please tell me you didn't --"

"Not yet. I've been giving it some thought, though," he offers. "Checked into airline, medical transport, actually. Flying back would be a fairly quick flight. It would require a nurse accompany you, so ..."

"Sherlock, I can't."

"What do you mean, can't?" Sherlock slides his tea back. "If it's money, I can take care of --"

"No, can't as in, can't _fly_." The furrow between Sherlock's eyes deepens. "Because of the air pressures, the cabin pressures, in an airplane. An absolute contraindication with a pneumothorax. The lower atmospheric pressures in the air, the altitude, whatever residual air is left inside my chest that is outside my lung could expand. It can cause symptomatic hypoxia, pain, distress, if the pneumothorax gets bigger in flight." John can see Sherlock processing it. "It would be dangerous."

"Oh, Boyle's Law." A smile broadens a bit as understanding comes to him, and Sherlock sits taller as John sighs. "Why didn't you just say so."

John grins at him. "I guess that would have been an easier explanation, yes." The smile fades. "So, yes, it won't be a quick trip home."

"Okay. Well, there are ambulance transfers, too. I discounted that mode earlier, so."

"You're sure you didn't actually book something, yeah?" John can't resist asking.

"I didn't. Just got some details, preliminary information. But I guess that's decided for us now anyway."

"Case management is recommending some rehab centers, physical therapists, I might need home visits, if not a few days in a rehab. They gave me a list of local facilities." The furrow on John's brow deepens as he stares at the foot that so far has defied any weight. Along the same vein, a few fingers come up to fiddle with the oxygen tubing that so far his body still needs. Each time they've tried to wean and discontinue it, his oxygen levels drop no matter what he tries - splinting, coughing, incentive spirometer, and every variant of body position from sitting, supine, semi-Fowlers, in and out of bed. They've been blaming the pneumonia, atelectasis, pain related to the rib fractures, and the chest tube itself.

"Come home, though. London has home services, too, yeah? Steps be damned." This last is said with a grin of conspiracy. "I can't imagine you'd need much."

Dr. Snyder and a nurse appear in John's doorway, and both of them look up expectantly. Sherlock knows immediately, the chest tube is coming out, just by their expressions and the supplies in the nurse's hands. "So speaking of needing something," the physician begins, "it appears you no longer need the chest tube. Pneumo's down to just under ten percent, and there's no increase as of this morning on your radiograph."

John is quiet and tries to imagine his lung at ninety-percent capacity, trying to gauge where the atelectasis is, the position of the pleural space gap. "Ten still sounds like a significant amount," Sherlock speaks up, questioning.

"We don't place chest tubes for anything under fifteen to twenty percent, usually much more. And current thought is that the presence of the tube is probably keeping John from taking deep breaths, due to pain and location. So by getting rid of it, at least in theory, he'll take deeper breaths, be more comfortable, and the lung will heal faster." Dr. Snyder checks the chest tube again. There is no air leak, and almost no drainage and hasn't been for several days now. "So back to bed with you. There's some IV pain medication, and then in about ten, fifteen minutes, we'll be back." He looks between them. "Questions?" Sherlock has several dozen that he wants to ask, but both of them look to John first.

"Out of ICU later today?" He can't help but wonder if Rosie will be much better off visiting without the high-tech machinery and equipment and pace of his current room.

"Probably, yes. I'll be ordering a private room so that your daughter can visit." He glances between them, smiles with anticipation and gestures back at the chest tube dressing, the apparatus. To Sherlock he says, "We usually ask family members to step out. But as long as John's all right with it, if you want, I suppose you can stay in the room while we do this. Over there, though, and out of the way up by John's head."

"That's fine with me," John says, and the phrase seems to catch them both again as they link eyes and swap secretive smiles.

Dr. Snyder's mobile rings, and he steps out.

The nurse holds a syringe up, along with an alcohol pad and a few saline flushes. "Back into bed first, then I have a dose of Fentanyl." One of the other nurses comes in to help, begins to move equipment around just a bit to give John a clear path to the bed.

"I'm not sure I want it," John says, a skeptical frown on his face. "The narcotic I mean."

Deadpan, Sherlock makes as if to roll up his sleeve. "I'll take it if he doesn't."

"Stop it," John cringes though the nurse laughs. "No, really, do you think ...?"

The nurse stops what she's doing. "Of course you don't have to, but almost all the time we give a dose of pain meds before-hand. It's a bit ... uncomfortable, people say." She is unrushed, which they both appreciate. "Keep in mind that there's probably at least ten to fifteen centimetres of tube inside you still, wrapped up over the apex of your lung. And remember, it's been in over a week. Fibrin sheath, tissues forming adhesions --"

"Right," John nods and gestures to his IV access, "forgot about that. So yes, absolutely."

She draws the curtain and then together with the other nurse and Sherlock's steadying arm, they help John stand, pivot, and sit back down in the bed. He still places absolutely no weight on his sore, swollen right foot. A few minutes later, John is sorted in the bed, siderails up, pain medication given, and a few minutes after that, John is dozing lightly when Dr. Snyder comes back into the room along with the nurse.

"Ready?" the nurse asks, her hand lightly touching John's arm.

John's eyes blink open slowly but he nods, starts to pull up the patient gown to expose his own chest. She checks to make sure the angle of the head of the bed is thirty degrees, elevates the bed to a comfortable working height, and assures that there is enough light, that John is ready, and that the curtain is fully shut.

"I'll get that," the nurse says as they watch John still moving slowly as he tries to pull the patient gown aside. She stills his slow-motion, somewhat medicated hand with a faint chuckle, and takes care of tucking the gown aside and placing a pad underneath where the chest tube will come out from near John's collarbone. "There should be no drainage, but just in case." She pulls out a procedure mask that has an eyeshield, donning one herself and offers the other one to Sherlock. Dr. Snyder is already wearing his. 

"So procedurally," he begins, "we'll clamp the tube, take down the dressing, cut the anchor sutures. You'll take a deep breath and hold it. A modified Valsalva, to keep air from entering your chest. You'll feel some tugging, perhaps from deeper inside," and he gestures to the area over his collarbone toward his shoulder, "and the tube generally comes out very smoothly. The nurse and I will tie the purse strings as it does. Pressure a couple of minutes, vaseline gauze and a dressing, and then you rest. A chest film in about four hours." Dr. Snyder looks up at Sherlock, who is far more concerned than John, in his narcotised state, is feeling. "He'll be fine. You might want to sit down, up there, hold onto that hand, okay? Just don't squeeze him too tight," Dr. Snyder teases lightly. "But put that mask on first though, very rarely there's just a bit of spray from the end of the tube."

Sherlock moves to the head of the bed, takes John's hand as instructed, and John watches nervously as they pull tape and clamp the tube.

Dr. Snyder sees the fearful expression on John's face and is quick to reassure him. "Not a bad deal, really. You follow my directions, and we'll have this out in no time. Trust me, and you'll feel better once it's out." The tape catches on John's chest hair, and he winces. "Sorry, that might be the worst of it. Tell you what, look over there, not at what I'm doing, okay? I'll tell you when." The nurse passes some adhesive remover pads over, which then both she and Dr. Snyder apply to the remaining edges of the dressing.

John is reluctant, apparently, and keeps staring at the chest tube, at the blue-gloved fingers of the doctor and the nurse as they work together to remove the layers of tape. Sherlock slides his fingers from across the bed to tuck them under John's jaw, pulling slightly so that John has no other choice but to finally turn his head to look at him. He feels ridiculous behind the mask, but his eyes are free and clear. A quiet intensity from John's gaze holds him, their eyes meeting under two sets of somewhat worried eyebrows. "Eyes on me," Sherlock says softly.

In response, John mouths quickly, _fuck you_ , but he is grinning a little as he does so. Sherlock's other hand is holding John's left, and they squeeze slightly as the doctor starts talking again. "So, yeah, we used more than enough tape here, but we're good now. Pulse ox?" he asks.

"Ninety seven," the nurse tells him. "On four liters, still."

The ratchety sounds of a hemostat click as he clamps the chest tube close to John's skin.

"Okay, when I say so," he says and there is a small pair of suture removal scissors in his hand, a few snips, and then he sets them down, "you'll take in that deep breath and hold it. Then I'm pulling the tube, the nurse is tying the remaining sutures, and then soon enough we'll leave you alone. Okay?" he asks and John nods, still holding Sherlock's eyes with his own and his hand with an anxious grip. "Deep breath," and John complies. A harsh tug, firm on the chest tube, and John can feel it sticking, holding and then beginning to dislodge from deep within his upper chest. "Okay, keep holding," Dr. Snyder says, increasing the force he's using to pull, and John can feel every bit of it as it begins to slide free and a faint groan of discomfort ekes from his throat, "and tie that off, great." More tugging on the surface of John's skin, the knotting rapidly accomplished, "Breathe, John. Good, all set," and Dr. Snyder lays the tube down in the bed to hold direct digital pressure over the hole, a few pieces of sterile gauze pressed firmly over the insertion site. "Good job, it's out. You can breathe easy now." The pressure is tight, but John is distinctly aware that the tube is out and that part is very much a relief. Dr. Snyder glances over. "You breathe too, Sherlock. Good grief, last thing we need is for you to pass out."

The nurse's gloved hands wrap the entire chest tube set-up, bin it, and then remove her mask. "Not so bad, yeah?" she says, with a smile. "Pulse ox is good, still ninety seven."

"And that's with me holding a fair amount of pressure over, yeah, let's see, how close is the rib fracture to here?"

"I can tell you that, pretty damn close," John says, his voice breathy and tight. "Ow."

"Vital signs every fifteen minutes for an hour," the nurse tells them, cuing up the automatic blood pressure cuff, "and bedrest until they're done. Congrats, you're one step closer to the door than you were."

Dr. Snyder holds pressure a few more minutes and then applies a new piece of gauze and tape. Strong clinician fingers assess for haematoma, bleeding, and crepitus. "Now that we already pulled all the hair off here, next dressing change shouldn't be so bad," he quips.

They finish straightening the room, hand the call bell to John, and dim the lights. "Rest a bit while you can. The pain medicine should still be circulating pretty well, so that should help."

++

A little while later, the nurse comes back in with a small box and a few batteries in her hand. She takes note of the final vital sign, the last of the set for the hour. He's been definitely not-dozing, Sherlock sitting close, touching at times, or just ... _basking_ perhaps, the silence and togetherness just comforting. Companionable. "What time is your daughter coming?"

"Couple of hours."

"I just got you a new room assignment. We can have you there in about an hour." She checks one more blood pressure, then removes the cuff, the pulse oximeter, and connects his heart monitor cable to the box. "Telemetry now. It transmits to the bedside monitor here, and out at the desk. You're a bit more portable now." She moves to the white board on the wall, writes a new room number. "Somehow you ended up with one of the VIP rooms. Big, private, very nice. I've only seen them a few times, so I'll be taking you over rather than giving report over the phone. You must know somebody," she teases, and misses the look John and Sherlock exchange _('Mycroft')_. "If I like it, I might hang out with you for a while, enjoy the big screen, wet bar ..." Chuckling, she opens the closet doors to survey his belonging situation. "Kidding about the wet bar. But the rest? I think you'll be pleased. We'll pack all this up soon, too."

True to her word, she comes back in less than an hour. She is pushing a wheelchair but makes no move to immediately help him into it. "Before you go, I wanted to make sure you are comfortable with moving." John stares back, not sure entirely what she is getting at. "Sometimes our patients, particularly the ones who were very ill like you were, get a little nervous about leaving an ICU setting. Afraid of not being monitored, concerned that they'll get sicker again, worried something will go wrong. Do you have thoughts like that?" John shakes his head negatively. "Okay, well, just know that you are your own best advocate. If something doesn't feel right, tell the nurse. We'll still be keeping an eye on you, and this is progress. If Dr. Snyder, or any of the rest of us, did not feel it was safe to move you, or not quite the right time, none of us would let it happen. You're ready, and you'll be fine."

John responds with a positive, eager, statement and throws some appreciation in along with it. The nurse turns a bit, sees Sherlock a little quieter, introspective.

To Sherlock, the memories of the room are not necessarily good ones. Though John is certainly doing much better, the powerful emotion, thoughts, worries, and associations will be nice to leave behind. He is, however, just as this nurse said, afraid of less monitoring, less staff, less other people keeping an eye on John. The nurse is watching him carefully, and touches his arm, reassuringly. "He's better. He's ready. You'll be surprised, just getting out of here feels really good. It’s a step closer to home.”

A technician comes in with a few empty belonging bags and a cart, begins to pack up John's things. The nurse helps John to a sitting position, listens to his chest again in all lung fields, pronounces them fit and hardy. "I called them already, gave a quick hand-off, will finish report over there. You ready? Because your chariot awaits," she announces, indicating the wheelchair.

A quick trip, a few wandering hallways, and a new nurse meets them in a rather large room with a significantly nicer set up, layout, and furniture than the previous one. She is lively, jokes that it's her first day on the job while competently helping John into a chair while simultaneously assessing him and unpacking bags. "Oh, so our physical therapist called. They'll be up to see you in a little while, too. You'll travel to radiology for your chest film later, a two-view in the department, and I heard rumour that there's a little princess coming to visit you?"

Sherlock answers after consulting his mobile. "Should be here in a half hour."

The nurse gives John a quick glance, frowns. "Did you want a shave first, before your daughter comes?"

"Good idea, so Rosie isn't startled."

"Rosie doesn't care," John says but then catches sight of Sherlock's eagerness, his looking at John with an indefinable hunger. _It's not for Rosie, then is it?_

The nurse looks skeptical. "You might want to, if that's what she's used to seeing."

Sherlock nods. "See, for Rosie, yes, just as I told you. Clean-shaven, just to be safe."

"I don't think we should hurry through shaving just so ..."

The new nurse opens a cabinet, pulls out shaving supplies. "I can try to send one of my aides in, we're a little busy, but ..."

John rubs his hand over his chin, feeling the stubble, thinking that Rosie probably won't even notice. He considers the busy-ness of the staff, wonders a bit at Sherlock's reaction, opts to push back slightly. "We can skip it. Maybe later?"

Sherlock eyes the crappy disposable razor, the generic shave cream, the staff who probably are entirely too rushed to really take their time. He tries to picture John with bits of tissue stuck all over him and the decidedly unfavourable reaction of Rosie to a sight like that. Not to mention his own displeasure - he's seen John with enough problems over the last week to think it would be remotely okay to add more to his own visual. "I'll do it."

++

There is still oxygen required, as John's levels still drop when switched to room air, which lets out doing this over the bathroom sink. So they skip walking to the bathroom (which John's foot won't allow either) and an aide fills a basin of very hot water and offers a small stack of linens. They set up a mirror on the table in front of John's chair. And she leaves them to it along with a comment that she'll be back to clean up a bit later. John is shortly wearing a towel about his neck and a worried look on his face. "Are you sure you can do this? Because if you've never done this for someone else, it's very dif-"

"I can do it."

"Maybe I should," John starts, his hands coming up, stiff, the ability to hold a razor and stabilise his face obviously a ridiculous claim given the still swollen fingers not to mention the arm cast.

"Stop. I'm a scientist. These fingers are quite dextrous, plus," and Sherlock's cheeks colour at his own insinuation, his mind wandering, so he continues quickly, "my attention to detail should be reassuring."

"You experiment on dead things that you can't hurt any longer, that don't bleed."

"Sometimes they do."

"Dead things don't bleed, Sherlock."

"They do if you use the right fluids, anticoagulants, and store them at the right temperature," he says quickly. "Now, stop talking. A moving target is definitely going to be harder not to lacerate."

Sherlock takes a hot flannel, softens John's whiskers, which are only a few days' growth because the nurses had indeed shaved him a few times in the ICU as they attended to the breathing tube and holder that had been firmly plastered to his face. John tries hard not to talk, to mumble, or to make faces that would contort his skin while Sherlock does actually keep a bit of a litany up about the terribly quality of the double-bladed razor and the faintly lime scented cream. Steam from the basin is warm, the mirror slightly fogged at the bottom, and Sherlock works for a bit in silence.

Jaw, chin, neck, lower cheeks. Eventually there will be nothing left to scrape clean but his upper lip.

For a few minutes, John watches and thinks that Sherlock might be deliberately avoiding looking at him, so carefully and intentionally do their eyes never come in contact. But after a moment, Sherlock does glance up, his index finger stretching the skin taut over John's lip at that point. They are so close together, then, Sherlock's hands touching John's face, his eyes darting quickly, his confident fingers steadily performing a rather intimate process of shaving. John can feel his breath catch, the proximity, the heat, the tenderness, and his eyes seem to get lost inside Sherlock's. The connection of Sherlock's pale eyes to John's darker ones, bright, intense, caring. He is held, magnetized, unable to look away, but fortunately, Sherlock blinks a few times and whispers something about Rosie.

The final touches are performed, a few stray whiskers cleaned up, and a rinse with a hot towel. "Shame there's no aftershave," he grouses, his voice low. It is a reminder of the past, having shared a flat, and John's haphazard use of aftershave, though both of them recall that he never missed it if there was a date involved. He isn't looking terribly upset, though, John thinks. "I should clean this mess up," he whispers, but doesn't actually back up at all. John is loathe for him to move, as well, and his hand raises, ostensibly to feel his own now-clean-shaven chin. Somehow or other, though, his hand finds Sherlock's face instead, loosely slides behind his neck, and gently gives the faintest tug. Sherlock swoops in closer, their breath meeting first, eyes still locked. Noses angled enough not to bump, their mouths approach, closer, closer, closer. Sherlock, the mobile one, leans in to press his lips onto John's. There is warmth, dry at first, the faintest movement, the tension and tightness and a stirring of anxiety. Of anticipation. A head angles, turns slightly, and John's hand falls back to his own lap but their mouths move too, slightly opening of lips, a faint pressing and pushing and tasting. It is thrilling.

As first kisses go, John thinks, this one was certainly noteworthy - in a hospital, the detritus of a face shave spread around them, him seated in a padded, hospital chair. Scars and wounds, a cast. Bloody oxygen tubing, out of the way but not really.

It was years of want, of history, of trust. Of hurt and pain, separation and reunion. It was a long time of longing. It was, as first kisses go, John thinks, positively _heaven._

++

A few more texts are exchanged, new room number, waiting room location, and John has pyjama pants, a solid powder blue draw-string monstrosity obtained from the hospital linen cart. His own shirt is mostly buttoned, having been a tight slide over the cast but on, none-the-less. As they'd done the last time, John's oxygen tubing is still in his nose but clipped behind his head under his hair. The nurse, initially, had complained about it. "It's not safe that way," she'd said. "You could accidentally hang yourself."

"Oh dear lord," Sherlock had breathed. "Give us a little credit."

Though John is grateful to be out of the ICU, he knows the nurses here are stretched a bit more thinly, more patients, more concerns. "I solemnly swear," John had said, raising his right, casted hand, "not to hang myself on my damned oxygen cannula."

John watches Sherlock bristle at her expression of distrust, and he can see the very moment that Sherlock's mouth might get them all into trouble as Sherlock begins, rapid-fire, "Perhaps if you paid less attention to the man --"

"Sherlock!" John interrupts, and repeats his name once more to get Sherlock's attention with a warning _stop it immediately_ shake of his head.

And she had glared and then chuckled, surrendering. The nurse had rolled her eyes, thrown her hands skyward, and muttered something that sounded like 'whatever' as she'd gone to answer another call bell, leaving John's room.

Another incoming text alert. "She's here." Sherlock taps at his mobile, and John echoes it and his heart pounds. "I'll go meet her, then. Back in a tic," Sherlock says. 

"Wait.” John, anxious, frowning. Sherlock moves toward him, and their hands find each other, a clasp of nerves, togetherness, and support. Every part of John, clearly, is frightened. "Have Rosie walk in this time," John tells him before he leaves to go meet the nanny in the waiting room. "She might feel a little more in control if you aren't carrying her."

"Good idea," he says with a sideways head tilt, watching John breathe too fast, watching John tense up. "Relax. God you're going to vibrate right out of your skin." He presses another snog to his temple, briefly. “Trust me.“ Sherlock stands at the door, looking at John, who is seated, waiting, looking much different than he had the prior day. Hopefully...  "Take a deep breath." And then he glides away.

John looks up as Rosie walks in, her hand clamping tightly on Sherlock's, who of course needs to nearly bend down so that she can reach. As she gets sight of John, she pauses, a hand reaching around Sherlock's leg, stopping in the doorway, uncertain. Her other hand, John sees, is clutching a small bag with handles.

Sherlock crouches down to Rosie-height as if it is the most natural thing in the world, to be nearly on the floor next to a two-year-old who isn't sure exactly which direction she wants to go in. "See? A new room. A nicer room. Your daddy's been resting, and doing better since yesterday when you came, yeah?" Rosie leans in, her body pressing into Sherlock but he does not scoop her up or even wrap his arms around her too much. He does, however, nuzzle at the side of her head with his own, a little playful, to get her moving and less worried. "And you have your new shoes on today, did you want to show them to daddy?"

"Wow, they're nice," John says, hoping for casual. "Did you get them this morning?"

When Rosie nods her head at him, he can feel the slightest accomplishment that she is interacting. Finally.

"And when you went shopping, you bought something else, didn't you?" Sherlock asks her, his mouth close to her ear, his words calm and quiet. She nods again, holds the bag and gives it a little twisty shake. "Let's give daddy the present, okay?"

Without making much fuss over it, Sherlock half-leads, mostly brings Rosie over to where John is sitting and helps her hold out the little gift bag. John and Sherlock meet eyes, and Sherlock is smiling more than he should be while Rosie leans against him but doesn't try to wrestle away.

There is a small object in the bag, and John tucks his big fingers in to pull out some errantly thrown in tissue paper. A small plastic can, John sees, though his eyes cannot stop watching Rosie instead. She hasn't really looked at him yet, he knows, but this, this closeness, this proximity, already so much better than yesterday. "Can you help me?" he asks her in a light voice, tipping the bag in her direction. She hesitates, reaches in, pulls out a container of play-doh. John lets out a soft whistle of surprise and pleasure. "Wow, nice," he tells her. "Green," he adds, tapping his finger on the lid and then awkwardly prying the can open with his thumb. "Smells yummy," he lies, the scent of the dough always striking him as unpleasant.

Rosie stares hard at the can, the yet-untouched perfect cylinder of the green dough inside, and then raises her eyes to look at John. "No."

With a hitching breath, John tries to under-react, but her word seems like quite a bit of progress. "You're right. It's awful."

A few moments later, and John shakes the can until it is in his hand. Rosie watches him briefly, then reaches a hand out again to hold onto Sherlock. John squeezes it in his left hand, fingers still swollen but better. It reminds him of the occupational therapy he'd needed after his injury in Afghanistan. Holding a pencil, manipulating small objects, the fine tremor, the numbness that despite exercises, warm-ups, movements, and stretching by the OT aides, did not abate. That had ended his surgical career.

John considers the texture of the dough, pinches it carefully with his hand, offers half the chunk out to Rosie, who watches carefully from the haven of Sherlock's periphery. His protection. She keeps a wary eye on John from the safety of Sherlock's nearness, his ability to hug if necessary, and John can well sympathise with the security derived from Sherlock's presence.

While Rosie pulls her hands in, Sherlock reaches out his hand, palm up, towards the green chunk and John drops the piece down. All of them wordless for the moment, John crushes his piece, working it until it is warm, and his movements are slow, stiff, but fade into the background, forgotten, as they watch Sherlock hold the piece close to Rosie. Her hand, slow motion, begins to creep toward the misshapen lump, intending to take it until Sherlock's hand snaps closed over it, preventing her from taking it. Just as quickly, his hand opens. Both men offer quiet, breathy-chuckles at her surprise, her hand frozen mid-air, eyes wide in surprise. They do it again. Hand snaps closed, open. And again.

After the fourth time, Rosie giggles, a gut-originated, low bubbly chuckle of genuine but low-key delight. It is quiet, but it does much for John's peace of mind. Rosie is okay. They are okay.

The play-doh doesn't hold their interest too long, and shortly is relegated back to the container and sits on the table nearby.

Apparently, Sherlock has again armed himself with a few things for Rosie. She turns away at the snack, shakes her head no at the juice box, but at least doesn't say no immediately to the small, cardboard book he produces from another pocket someplace. John does not recall ever seeing it before, and given Rosie's reaction to it, he thinks it must be new to her as well. 

Eventually, Rosie shakes her head side-to-side when Sherlock holds out the book, jiggles it twice, so he deftly opens the book one-handed and flips one of the little cardboard flaps up with a wriggle of his index finger so she can see that there are hidden treasures to be explored. He then closes it again, hoping to tempt, intrigue, or both. She watches but distantly. And then, as both John and Sherlock realise that Rosie is immovable and almost sigh in a muffled version of defeat, Rosie gingerly takes the book from Sherlock, and then, tentatively, shyly, holds it out to John.

_To John._

It seems an extension of peace, forgiveness. An olive branch in the shape of a toddler book. John forces himself to move slowly, to not startle but not to hesitate.

"Eed!" she says, then turns slightly and is just about to tuck her thumb into her mouth, fully expecting John to pick her up. "Eed it." The thumb goes in, and she waits. Of course, she has no idea that John is absolutely unable to pick her up, she just expects him to do what he has always done. Awkwardly, fearfully, John does seem like he's about to slide an arm toward Rosie, but Sherlock intervenes with a cautionary throat clear at first.

"Your ribs," he says quietly, but takes Rosie under both arms and plumps her next to John in the oversized chair. "Not yet."

He feigns boredom, slides into a chair a short distance away, while John and Rosie struggle over holding the book, flipping open little doorway flaps, exposing birds in a window, toys in a chest, and other surprises and children's literary hidden fun.

They read it once, and immediately Rosie flips back to the beginning. Of course John obliges her.

All of their eyes are drawn to Rosie's sudden focus on John's cast, as she picks at the edge, feels the roughness of the fiberglass, investigating his fingers and the small amount of padding that wraps over near his knuckles. She traces some of the lines down to John's elbow next, pushing a bit until he turns it over so she can see the rest of it. Just as suddenly, she looks away, done with it. John feels like he has just received a perfunctory stamp of approval. Or at least, of tolerance.

Rosie squiggles down off the chair, then takes the book from John again, handing it to Sherlock. "Eed it."

"I'll most definitely _read_ it." He doesn't miss the moment to correctly pronounce the word for her, and John notices that he simply models the right way without pointing out hers being wrong. It makes John smile as he can see exactly how wonderful Sherlock is with her, how careful and indulgent and attentive. "Will you help me with the pages?" 

John watches the pair with very fond eyes, seeing a tenderness in Sherlock that he doesn't think has really ever been conveyed to anyone else outside of the room. They get through it once, and then she moves back to the closed play-doh container. It rolls, she pats it, then picks it up, bangs it on the table. Her orbit consists of staying quite close to Sherlock, very acutely aware of where he is and never straying too far. The cautious eye, she keeps on John, though she does offer him the yellow plastic container with the green lid, then takes it right back away from him.

One of the dietary services workers comes in, takes his lunch and supper orders, chats with them for a few minutes, chuckles at Rosie's curls and her impish refusal to talk, followed by a respiratory therapist who checks John's oxygen equipment, his pulse oximetry (low nineties with the oxygen running), and watches him use the incentive spirometer again. John takes a large first breath, but then some coughing triggers a fair amount of pain and, both winded and frustrated, he sets the device aside.

"Speaking of dinner, I think Rosie and I will be back then, for supper, to eat here with you."

"Oh, okay."

"The nanny has a previous engagement tonight."

"I'd really like to meet her, you know." John grimaces a little as Rosie fidgets against him. "You've both been ..." He snorts just a little as a word to capture the magnitude of what's gone on escapes him. His smile softens as Sherlock gazes back at him, kindly, patiently. Off-handedly, casually, Sherlock keeps hold of Rosie's hand as she tries to spin and twirl on the floor, her orbit in his vicinity now tethered. "Amazing. Brilliant?" his eyes and voice inflection seek input.

"Fine?" Sherlock says with a small but twinkling smile.

"That too."

All too soon she is a little itchy, still not terribly interested in John any longer or in getting close to him again. "I think I'll take her on out, then. Say, see you later, young Miss Watson," he says picking up Rosie and with a playful flair he nuzzles at her while holding her out again for John to do the same. This time, there is a bit more giggling, and John watches them leave the room, Rosie waving as Sherlock's long arms wrap around her, his long legs take her back to the nanny.

Almost suddenly, he is overwhelmed with exhaustion, and a nurse answers his call light, helps him stand, hop briefly one arm clenched on Sherlock's forearm while the other leans on the nurse, and then Sherlock dismisses the staff and settles John in bed. It is quite a process, getting him in a comfortable position. There are pillow and blanket adjustments, the head of the bed, elevated. "Rest up," he says. Frowning, John stretches on the bed and very shortly there is a grimace.

"You should probably have pain medication. It's been a long time, and you'll breathe easier, deeper."

"I'll wait, actually," though he could certainly sense the need. He reaches behind his head, pulling the oxygen cannula off and repositioning it so that even if he were to fall out of bed, there would be no tightening around his neck. "I can get by without for now."

As he'd seen the nurses do, Sherlock knows his eyes are twinkling and pulls the overbed table close, close enough to tap with a fingernail on the incentive spirometer as a reminder.

"Okay, maybe I do need some, if I'm going to ..."

"And you do know that you need to, prevent the pneumonia getting worse."

Another press of the call bell, and this time the nurse calls in on the intercom, so John makes his slightly apologetic request that way, swallows the pill when it's delivered. A few deep breaths despite the pain pill not having time to work, and there is a smile of satisfaction bestowed.

With a small smile, John pushes the table back. "Happy now?"

Sherlock nods, smiles, and settles in with his mobile, telling John to sleep while he can, and in the comfortable security of knowing things were on the upswing, John does finally fall into a deep sleep.

He awakens to a quiet room, his lunch tray now cold on the table, and no one in sight. A faint humm sounds from the hallway, of other patients and staff, a few alarms, equipment.

Despite his inner monologue telling him that everything is okay, that this is truly fine, he can feel his breath hitch and his heart start to race. With an idle finger, he feels the comforting security of the heart monitor, knows that he is actually being watched remotely by someone. The slightest sensation of being winded niggles and picks at his consciousness. He misses the hard-wired monitor, pulse oximetry, the close observation of ICU, the presence of Sherlock.

Particularly that last bit. Thinking he will try to send off a text, he spies his mobile close by. There is a small piece of paper laying on top of that when he picks it up.

_Don't worry. I'll be back soon._

_Deep breaths, John. You're doing fine._

_SH_

++

Fine was apparently true, and 'soon' ends up not too much later than that, and John sets the note where he can see it. One of the nurses comes back and tells him that the orthopedist should be in today, hopefully soon, to see him. So it is the orthopedist he is expecting when Sherlock comes back into the room with a flurry.

"You seem disappointed," Sherlock states.

"Of course not. Waiting on another doctor, more rounds expected today."

"Ah yes, about your foot."

"Hopefully." John shifts, asks, "Off doing something fun, were you?"

"Some fact finding." Sherlock shrugs. "Confirming your information about flying after collapsed lung. Some other miscellaneous things." John seems ready to ask a few questions which Sherlock quite clearly doesn't want to get into, so he changes the subject to something else rather important. "The nanny has been wonderful, but her availability ends in two days."

"Oh."

"No problem." A calculating eye finds John, takes in the oxygen, the swollen foot, the obvious problems with mobility.

John is already ahead of him. "There are a few things standing in my way of discharge, still."

"I know."

"I'll pin down the doc when he rounds later. Or tomorrow morning."

"I'd like to be here for it, if possible."

"Except that today you have to relieve the nanny, bring Rosie back here. You said something about dinner, the three of us."

He consults the time. "Yes, soon, I suppose. Can I bring you anything else?"

"Strength to walk. Enough oxygen that this bloody thing," and he tugs at the oxygen in his nose, "isn't needed any longer. Maybe completely healed, painfree ribs, while I'm asking."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a marker so that Rosie can decorate your cast."

"Pass."

"Perhaps I'll bring one anyway, draw you a nice heart by my initials." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes, pre-procedural pain medication for discontinuing a chest tube is a necessity, but given the audience and the history, I think we can understand why John tries to go without. In the states, two credentialed and trained nurses are able to remove a chest tube, because it really does take two people to perform de-lining safely, one for the tube, the other to tie the sutures.
> 
> Shaving, yes please use caution. I think we all know why Sherlock wanted John's face taken care of, do we not?
> 
> And Rosie, not quite a hug or a snuggle yet, but definitely progress.
> 
> Next stop, I think it's time to return to London.
> 
> ++
> 
> I would have liked to end this chapter elsewhere but I think this ends in an okay spot.
> 
> Thanks for following along, and for your patience! If there are little things to be cleared up (or cleaned up) please, or typos, gently let me know. All the comments and such do really make my day.


	12. Ellipsis - An Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one because I needed some fluffiness and feels.
> 
> And because none of us (John in the hospital, Sherlock in the hotel, nor me) can apparently sleep all that well.

_He runs a careful, respectful, honouring fingertip along the top edge of the bowl, where ridges of gold overlay the object, the creation, his masterpiece. Highlights of colour shine and sparkle, all perfectly balanced in design and appeal._

_His magnum opus. One of them anyway._

_The artist sets it in the back of the studio near his private workspace, where only he can see it. It is too precious to think of parting with right now, before he has enjoyed it, listened to it, reveled with it. Though he is already connected, he relishes and cherishes each view, feels a pride only another craftsman would completely understand._

_He thinks it may be similar, possibly, to that which a parent might feel, watching their child. Not doing something particularly remarkable, or performing, or excelling, just ... the very nature of their existence, their being._

_It is Kintsugi:_ _Beauty in brokenness, beauty out of brokenness._

_Gold over porcelain, vine and leaves, a pristine painting carefully fractured into a work of quality craftsmanship and elegance, refinement. He knows that soon it will be displayed in the centre of the front studio window. It will be subject to public scrutiny, admiration, perhaps interest. Soon. He will do it soon, fill the empty space in the window, and he and his creation are even now on borrowed time, their days together limited. The countdown will begin in earnest when, courageously, he will place the work out on display. Both creator and craft fulfilling their destiny, their purpose: for the brokenness to have meaning. Because brokenness always has meaning._

_And eventually, with a small amount of necessary and unavoidable grieving, when the time is right, he will let go of it._

++

**just got back to my room from 2 view cxr**

Although it hadn't been too long since Sherlock had taken Rosie back to the hotel, it had been a much shorter evening than most of them had been. Rosie had been an itchy, restless, unsettled, overtired toddler and so dinner hadn't really gone off well. Sherlock did manage to get her out before things got too bad, and he'd asked John to let him know how the remainder of his evening had gone.

**good to hear, it went okay?**

**wheelchair, oxygen tank, all a bloody nuisance, but yes okay**

**results?**

**pending.** There is no response, so John adds,  **how was your night?**

**the little tyrant -**

Sherlock's text continues immediately, **oh did i say tyrant?**

**I meant princess of course, John**

**\- escaped from the bathtub, slippery little devil, ran around a bit starkers before i bribed her with food**

John is chuckling, as Sherlock had meant for to happen. **god sherlock it's a small hotel room, how far could she get.** He considers for a moment that this is Sherlock and all of the unexpectedness that could mean. **You had shut and locked the door yeah?**

**of course, no worries, the biscuits were quite motivating, much as they are with you**

**i should probably resent that, but... i guess it might be true**

**i'll bring you some tomorrow, unless further ~~bribery~~ rewards are needed as incentive for your progeny**

**okay, that'd be nice. Hobnobs?**

Another lull in the conversation, and finally John realises that Sherlock in all likelihood has other things to do.

 **i should go, the travel was exhausting,**   **just wanted to say goodnight to you both**

A few moments later, John receives a photo. It is Sherlock's attempt at a selfie and not a perfect one, but it takes John's breath away anyway. Sherlock, his arm outstretched and visible, is smiling, his curls overshadowing Rosie who is curled up into an impossibly small space. Her thumb is in her mouth, her eyes are just barely open. The blanket, the green blanket of course, is tucked around and wrapped behind her and cocooned into the hand nearest her face. Her other hand is loosely clutched around Sherlock's shirt collar, her small fingers tucked inside along his neck. Sherlock looks _cuddly_ ... and John stares, and stares, and finally blinks. He changes his mind, actually is it absolutely, one hundred percent perfect.

Sherlock looks _content._

John takes note of the fullness in his throat that is even stronger than the pain in his ribs, the soreness of his foot, as he composes a response, deletes it, tries again, deletes that too. He cradles the mobile, touches the screen when it begins to fade to wake it up again.

On the other end, Sherlock sees the ellipsis, wonders if he has upset John, made him feel as if he's missing out. Or worse, that he's been replaced. **john?**

 **lovely.** He sends it quickly, realises it might be out of context now, sends another. **the photo is lovely**

Two texts are exchanged then, arriving simultaneously on respective mobiles:

 

**wish you were here.**

**wish i was there.**

 

John continues to hold onto his mobile, then fiddles with it, pressing a few buttons until he has changed his home screen wallpaper to the most recent photo of Sherlock and Rosie. Even when his screen goes dark and his eyes finally drift shut, he can still see it. And he is softly smiling. They both are.

_Soon._

++

**gambling that you're still awake**

The text is startling to Sherlock, though he is awake of course, given that it is nearly eleven and he would have presumed John to be sleeping, medicated, or perhaps both.

**of course**

**rosie?**

**asleep across the room. you ok?**

**late nite visit from orthopedist, about my foot**

**this late, ridiculous. what if you'd been sleeping?**

**i wasn't, and he'd just finished in surgery, popped round to check**

The message appears as read, and time passes, nothing further for a few minutes, and Sherlock feels the need to prompt, **and?**

There is still radio silence, and Sherlock is thinking that perhaps something has gone wrong, sends another text, **there is a point to this conversation?**  and in the dragging moments is filled with dread. He just about convinces himself that indeed something has happened, and as his own alarm swells he considers that he is going to contact the nurses station when finally, his mobile buzzes again.

**sod off. yes. nurse was just here. but now maybe i'll make u wait until tmr**

**childish**

**pot, kettle**

ellipsis, John is typing, finally, **having an mri tomorrow, based on exam though, doc thinks i'll probably, hopefully, only need a boot**

**okay...?**

**a walking boot, big clunky gadget, black plastic, straps**

**walking though, you said, so that’s good yeah?**

**well, not walking right away**

**eventually though, hence the name**

**most definitely, while the soft tissues heal**

**for how long**

**depends**

**ah yes, depends. medicines favourite LAME answer loosely interpreted i don’t know**

**it does probably mean i can come directly home, no inpatient rehab, steps are going to be not easy but manageable**

Ellipsis, ellipsis, ellipsis. Sherlock is typing, Sherlock has entered text, Sherlock has deleted text.

Ellipsis, ellipsis, ellipsis. Sherlock is typing, and John's patience rather quickly wears out.

**hey, you still there?**

**god yes. oh god.**

**what's wrong**

The texts then come rapid-fire to John's mobile, all from Sherlock, and John can picture his thumbs flying over the mobile. He can tell that Sherlock is indeed a bundle of nerves.

**home, it's good**

**very good, thank god**

**i wish i could call you without waking rosie**

**that's great news**

**i can't even, oh god**

**need a minute here**

Acutely, John wishes not for the first time that Sherlock was with him, that they could see and touch, breathe, commiserate. To center. _Settle_. He draws a shaky breath himself, makes a decision.

**i'm calling you, i need to, you can at least hold the phone up**

**no i'm fine**

**i'm calling right now**

**don't wake rosie!**

**jesus christ sherlock you're worrying me i'm calling you right now, just hold the phone up and let me talk to you**

Sherlock begins typing a response, his heart pounding, fingers slipping on the mobile, _no, don't, i'm fine don't bother it's okay don't ca--_ Message not finished, let alone sent.

Too late. Sherlock's mobile buzzes, an incoming call, John Watson's caller ID profile. Sherlock gulps, takes a deep, tremulous breath, presses accept and the call connects.

"God Sherlock, just listen okay? It's okay, I'm all right. I know it's good news.” Deep collective breath. "Are you okay?” He snickers a little that he has just asked a question Sherlock can’t answer. "No, don't answer that, Rosie's asleep, I know.”

John pauses, listening, picturing Sherlock holding the mobile to his ear. "I didn't realise it either, how bad I wanted, _needed_ , to come home, home to Baker Street that is, until it seemed like case management was having me ... bloody committed, _seemed like sectioned_ somewhere for weeks or something. Rehab my arse." He is nervous, speech pressured, hating that they are apart, and he can hear and also dislike the tremor in his own voice as he continues. "I know, actually I _didn't_ know, there was so much riding on this, on where they were going to let me go." 

By this point, Sherlock has already slid out of bed, taken the mobile into the bathroom, his bare feet quiet on the carpeting and then cool on the lino. "John," he whispers. Pause, a lull. "I'm here," Sherlock adds.

"You're hiding in the bathroom aren't you." There is a faint, apprehensive giggle.

"Sort of. I used to call the ICU nurses desk from in here, last week, for my three in the morning updates."

John takes that in for a moment. They haven't really talked yet about that sort of thing, how it had been, Sherlock's waking nightmare while John's condition was so tenuous, so critical. "The update today is, at least tentatively, looks like we can start thinking about some serious plans for London." John moves the phone, scrolls back through their text conversation. "But it'll keep until tomorrow. I'm more interested right now in whether you're okay. I didn't mean..." John is uncertain, they both are, at the changes that loom.

"Just keep getting better. And no, really, it's okay, but I was so prepared for a much worse ... timeline. I'm just relieved. And it ..." He hears the faint echo in the tiled bath, lowers his voice. "I can't really explain the ..." The sentence remains unfinished, and the sound of nothing lingers for a few minutes.

"I know, me too." John listens for Sherlock's breathing or other signs of distress, hears none. "You okay now?"

"Fine," Sherlock whispers, smiles at the overused word being overused yet again. He hears the difference in his own voice, figures John can hear it too and identify the partial truth. "Better, anyway."

"Take the mobile back to bed with you."

"What?"

"Just do it, okay?"

"Explain."

"I'm waiting." The Captain John voice, Sherlock thinks, lacks a bit of authority. Or perhaps it is just that Sherlock knows he is laying down, wearing a hospital gown, a patient wristband, and a heart monitor.

He resists out of principle. “I won't be able to talk back to you."

"I know, just real brief, for a moment. You won't need to answer."

"Then all right, I suppose," he agrees but reluctantly. "First I'm saying good night to you."

"All right." John waits while he utters it again, and then can hear, from his hospital bed kilometres away, the sound of footfalls, perhaps imagined, and then rustling fabric, the faint creak of a hotel mattress. "For some reason, I was just thinking of you there, taking care of ... just _everything_. Rosie, all of it. And I'm sorry for the ... hell it's been. For you. Later, you'll have to tell me about it, but I just wanted to say thanks. And you’ve been strong when I haven’t been, and it’s okay." There is a silence, a drawn out silence, and the faint sound of breathing. Sherlock continues to be quiet and John's voice settles too, more relaxed, slower in cadence, soothing. "It's just a nice image for me, knowing you're in that awful drab room with the green walls and that odd painting, the maroon triangles and stucco texture by the bed." Sherlock glances up, having not really paid much attention to it, but John is right that the room is green and the painting is an odd, mass-produced decoration. "I like knowing you're there, all tucked in. I can picture you with a couple of pillows, the way the mobile probably lights up your face, and it's just ..." John pauses. "I guess I should stop there before this gets ... more awkward, but anyway, good night Sherlock. I'll talk to you soon, yeah?"

A faint stage whisper, and Sherlock whispers back, "Yes."

"Good night. My MRI is supposed to be morning, I'll text you when I know the time, or maybe you'll already be here."

He hears Sherlock breathing, and somehow the answer is conveyed. _Yes of course._

"Text me back, anytime, if you need to. I only sleep in fits, and the mobile's set on silent. Won't wake me."

"You too," Sherlock whispers, listening for Rosie and hearing absolutely no change. "Anytime you need."

"Promise." He sighs, picturing a curly head against a pillow, a tee shirt bunched up and hugging at Sherlock’s arms, the bowed lips that had only so recently pressed against John's. He wonders if Sherlock's still tingle a little, like his own do, when he thinks about it. “Goodnight then.”

There are a few minutes where the only sounds are them breathing, and both are acutely aware of words that have somehow been spoken into the gaps, the silence, as finally John breathes goodnight again and is the one who disconnects the call.

++

In two rooms, different locations, two mobiles fade to home screen, the glow dimming before finally shutting off. Two men ponder the emptiness, the feeling that something is still vaguely missing and then realise it is not something, but _someone_. They each tamp down the loneliness and find a bit of comfort knowing that they are not alone in their yearnings.

Finally, indeed, progress.


	13. The Journey of A Thousand Miles

_**The world breaks everyone** _

_**and afterward many are strong in the broken places.** _

_**(Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms)**_  

++

_The bowl has been basking with the artist, gleaming in the studio lighting, and a few days ago was burnished by unhurried, loving hands to a fine sheen with a clean, soft polishing cloth before being carried, reverently, to the store front. It sits on a display shelf out in the open, in the window. It is the recipient of many a glance of the street passer-by, but only a few come inside to admire, to inquire._

_One day, someone will come in to ask. To honour._

_A few have asked more seriously if it is for sale, about the price, whether it is negotiable. Little do they know, the negotiations are already done within the head of the artist, a done deal based on sight and intuition alone. The quote exorbitant enough to drive away the potential purchaser the artist deems unworthy or uninterested. Or unaffected._

_When the suitable potential new owner arrives, the price will be right._

_They wait. It is a patient process. The attachment between them is strong and yet both know it is finite._

_One rainy afternoon, the artist is ready to call it the end of a long day. It is only mid-afternoon, but his day started early, and he sets his own hours and it pleases him._

_Pedestrian traffic on the street is the usual, random, idle. He glances toward the window to see the silhouettes of two men, walking, close. They are a striking pair, shoulders nearly touching, one with curls, long coat and scarf, the other silvery blond, a bit more serious. Their pace is slow, ambling, yet one of them has a bit of a rolling gait about him, the faintest irregularity. They pause at the studio window, and he can see lips moving as they both are caught, held, intrigued at what they see. At what they sense._

_He gets a faint tingle in his gut. An inkling, a foreboding. Their admiration, their histories, their concentration, their pain._

_Oh, their pain. Something about them._

_These may be the ones. A small bell dings as the opening door catches underneath it, announcing studio entrance, and he looks up, the thrill of excitement fading immediately. It is not the men, but someone asking about art lessons. Wordlessly he points to the bulletin board inside the door where other studios, other artists offer those. A glimpse eventually down the street, and there is no sign of the pair that had been outside earlier._

++

The night nurse tentatively pushes open the door to room 2137, the VIP suite, where John Watson has been since his transfer out of the Trauma ICU four going on five days previously and due, finally, to be taken by ambulance back to London sometime perhaps later today. On quiet, nearly silent shoes, she often makes rounds without disturbing even the faintest bit those patients under her charge, and this is no exception.

The room is still, quiet, a faint bubbling of oxygen as it runs through a humidity bottle and into the cannula, but otherwise, there are no other sounds. Each shift they’ve tried to wean it, each time unsuccessful and frustrating.

The bed is perpendicular to the door, the body laying quiet, but there is a faint blue tinge illuminating the face of the patient, the mobile in his hand and eyes tiredly making out something on the screen in front of him. Best she can tell, it is a mindless matching game and the patient is not paying too much attention, simply passing time.

"Good morning," she whispers.

John sets the mobile screen down against his chest slowly. "Hey."

She senses something, some reason for the early awakening. The analog clock on the wall reads not quite five. Many years' experience, and a wise practice of saying little much of the time, she pads to the chair close to the foot of the bed, left there by a previous day's visitor. She'd seen someone leaving this room, a million hours ago at the start of her shift. Long coat, long legs, nice enough looking bloke, from what she remembers. Attentive - that she remembers.

John waits, watches, sees her sit, the faint light in the room coming from the tiniest of orange, square, downward-deflecting nightlights near the door. It is, for the moment, plenty.

She smiles, an eye taking in all there is to see at the moment, which is very little by this point. The heart monitor, discontinued yesterday, the continuous read pulse oximetry, long gone. There is a capped intravenous access left in for use only in an emergency. Chest tube dressing, hidden under patient gown and changed the previous evening. No restlessness at the moment of his legs, casted arm barely elevated but still not dependent that would cause swelling. She can see that his fingers are moving easily, the swelling of both hands greatly improved. But his face, tense. Shoulders high and tight, definitely not relaxed.

She tries to wait him out, but John is reluctant, hesitant, and for the moment, mute. Leaning back in the chair, as if planning to be there a while, she cocks a casual pose, ankles crossed, and finally says quietly, leading with, "So, big day today."

"Yeah," he answers. "Hopefully."

Because he doesn't elaborate after another few minutes tick by, she finally chuckles at his stoic behaviour, his reticence. "Something on your mind?" She can hear a sigh that goes along with chest rise, and then a faint throaty sound as if that movement is followed by the discomfort of a deep breath. "I know you're a doctor, but that doesn't mean you have all the answers, or aren't entitled to worrying a bit about things, health-wise or something else. A concern." Their eyes have accustomed to the dim lighting which still casts enough around that she can see him watching her, rapidly blinking. "Because you know what, Dr. Watson, now's the time --"

"John."

"John," she parrots back but does not allow him to distract him from the meat of the conversation, "now's the time to get answers, if we need to arrange something before you leave, or get something else done, another study or whatever. Whatever I can possibly do to make this easier for you, I'll do it." She is close enough and observant enough to see his lips thin out, and she thinks perhaps she will press one more time. "Listen, if you can't say it to anyone else, I'm not a bad option. I am a complete stranger, and after seven am, we will almost definitely never cross paths again."

"No, I'm okay. Chest hurts but the ribs are healing. Lung, just I suppose some residual damage, but no signs of ... _fibrosis_ or something that would be a long-term problem." He can still recall the reeling sensation of Dr. Snyder's conversation with him, playing worst case scenario at John's invitation, his request, and had dropped the words pulmonary fibrosis on the table.

++

"So what else can we rule out? Interstitial lung disease?" John asks. He is well aware that his faculties are still not one hundred percent. "Something that wouldn't have shown on all the X-rays. Something infectious?" They'd been discussing the refractory hypoxia on room air, the oxygen dependence. 

Dr. Snyder considers him carefully, sensing that his request for truth might not be best for him at this time, and takes note of the obvious empty chair. "Did you want to wait until --" _Sherlock is here with you?_

"No. He's enough to worry about."

He decides to answer, knowing that if situations were reversed, he would also want to know. "Perhaps. There are a few other unlikely things. It can wait, truthfully, until you're back in London." _Do you mean it?_

"I'm missing something," John confesses. "And I can tell you're holding back." _Yes I mean it._

"Well, the fluid in there, we've been watching. You've known that." They'd been following John's pleural effusions by chest X-rays.

"Yes, but. _Shit_ ," John says almost under his breath, "just tell me."

"Sometimes scarring from fibrosis can prevent a pleural effusion from reabsorbing." A few seconds tick by loudly as John's mind connects, clicks. Dr. Snyder holds up a hand, "Now, listen, before you --"

"IPF." John speaks the abbreviation, the faint tremors and queasiness that comes from knowing he wasn't clear yet, but he well understands the pathology and poor prognosis of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. "Shit," he says again, a little louder this time, the dots finally connecting, the missing piece. "Okay."

"It's unlikely. I'll order PFT's for the morning." He points a finger at John. "No borrowing trouble. It is highly unlikely."

John swallows, nods. After Dr. Snyder leaves the room, the empty chair feels even more empty.

++

"So right, thankfully, not that." John can still feel and taste the fear that had dissipated later, and hear Dr. Snyder's reassurances that this is manageable, treatable, temporary, recoverable.

The smile on the nurse's face is genuine, sympathetic. "Right, your PFTs were all pretty normal." John'd had a bit of testing done just given the refractory hypoxemia, the failure to wean from the oxygen. The pulmonary function tests had been done the previous day even though they all knew his pain with inspiration was going to make analysis skewed. "And you are down to two liters now."

"It's just, you know," and he shakes his head a little, still trying to figure out what and how much to say it, not to mention when and to whom. "Big changes.” He plunges ahead, decides it’s an all-in moment, lays out the cards. “I think what's most ... disturbing ... is the trip home. On my own. Thoughts of being strapped in the back of an ambulance for so long. Really, uh,” and his voice hitched, “powerless there." He brushes his hand over his chin, a nervous tic. "Last time I was in a vehicle, not such a good time."

"Oh, right." She knew, even recalled the details, head on, other driver killed, found by a passing motorist. Head trauma. Intubated and agitated in the trauma unit for over a week. She sees him try to hide his bounding carotid pulse, hears the tremor and the stress in his voice, and opts for a brief deflection. A smile comes to her, and she squints at him. "I guess it would be in poor form to remind you that the actual last time technically was an ambulance, saved your sorry arse?" They share a very brief chuckle, and she sobers again. "I'm sorry, and it must've been awful. Do you remember the accident at all?" Perhaps she can mention a previous coping skill.

"No." His mind still searches for more memories, even now, of his shoulder injury, of the early days in the trauma ICU, but the meds, the propofol and the precedex had quite effectively rendered him amnesic of most of those times. "There's nothing."

She hears the implied 'but,' the rest of the story, the elaboration that is pending, and so she waits.

She is not disappointed. "And that's the thing, when I got shot in Afghanistan, I am to this day still missing a lot of time right around that." The softness of his voice, the lower register, are soothing and honest. "You know my history, some PTSD, had a therapist a while. Right now, it's just that the sleeping is terrible. Can't turn the mind off, you know?"

"Nights are especially hard, seems."

He nods, smiles, swallows hard as he looks down, wriggles his fingers that stick out the end of his cast. His _light blue_ cast, he reminds himself. Sherlock's choice for him. Their eyes have accommodated to the lighting and she is watching him intently. "Yes."

"Trauma like that," she says, quiet, "never really goes away, does it? It doesn't take much of a trigger to bring it back."

"Exactly," John breathes, and he is grateful for the company, for someone to help summarise, to listen.

"You seem to be doing okay with that right now, you said? Not feeling down, depressed or hopeless?" she asks and John recognises the screening phrase regarding the likelihood of patients considering self-harm.

"Yeah, it's okay. I'm all right. Things are a lot different now than they were after ..." and John's mind thinks he could finish that sentence with a variety of endings:  ... _after_   _the roof, after Mary, after ..._ and he chooses the safest and the only one his nurse knows about, "... the war. Better."

"Your recovery has been nothing short of amazing," she says, though she leaves a lot of wriggle room in not actually limiting the description to his arm, his leg, his lungs, his head. "That doesn't mean it's easy."

"Looking at some other changes, back home. Home physiotherapy, I suppose. And I'll be moving flats in London."

"Home oxygen therapy for a while," she adds, a reminder that John of course already knew. "Home health nurses, too. And moving, as you said. That's hard with being laid up, injured."

"Right. Sherlock already ordered a concentrator, you know, the oxygen for the flat. A pulse oximeter. Extra long tubing, probably so I can still get to the hob, fix him his bloody tea the way he likes it." There is a fond smile, and he fingers the cast again, imagining Sherlock analysing carefully the available colour options.

"Seriously?" she chuckles despite truthfully not really wanting to do so.

"My tea is infinitely better than his. And a far cry better than your hospitals, too." He smiles at her then grows more serious again. "And a portable tank, he said, for excursions if we need it."

"Feels a little too ... _chronic_ for your tastes?"

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I know I'm lucky --"

"It doesn't feel lucky, though, does it?" She leans forward, pats his leg a bit. "Only way out of the mess is through it, one step at a time. Look back now and again, you've already journeyed a long way, John." They both quiet a moment, and the room is peaceful despite the somber discussion. "And Sherlock? Is that who was here last night?"

"Yes." Blink. Blink. "Best friend." The description feels to John like a little bit of a betrayal. "Partner," he clarifies, trying out the word for the first time. "He's been taking care of everything. My daughter, transport arrangements, supplies like I said."

"Long enough oxygen tubing to the teapot." She is grinning, shaking her head, making that sound more positive. "We all need to feel useful."

"Yes, that too. All of it."

"Then, you know what John? Just enjoy the tea. Your tea, once you get _home_." Her words ring true and are oh, so gently spoken as she isn't finished. "And embrace the lucky, John." _Embrace the lucky_ , and the words suspend and hover, the awkward phrase particularly poignant given the wee morning hour and the past minutes as they've been talking. "Even when it doesn't feel it to you. Not everybody gets that second chance." John thinks to himself, counting off as he does so, the pool, the roof, the bonfire, the rage he'd felt in the mortuary, Sherrinford, the well, now his accident, and that’s just for starters, without thinking hard. He can still see the way his revolver sat in his desk drawer in that long-ago bedsit, the times it weighed on him. He turns the words second chance on their side, thinking that he's had many second chances. Distantly there is a phone ringing, a call bell, the voices and footsteps of perhaps a few more people up and about, the faint sounds of a hospital waking up. "You're a survivor. A few times over now, yeah?" She leans close to pat his shoulder, adjust the oxygen tubing that is slightly askew, then grips his hand warmly, offering that comforting human touch before stepping out of his room.

The doors ghosts closed, and John sighs to himself. Sherlock's paper note from the other day, _you're okay, be back soon_ , has been taped to his incentive spirometer, and he smiles to himself before realising he feels less uncertain, and his eyes are drifting slowly shut.

++

Dr. Snyder arrives mid morning, a folder in his hand. Glancing between John and Sherlock, both tense, both nervous, and he stops, chuckles, and grins at them both. "Congratulations. I understand ambulance arrangements are being confirmed as we speak. Once you sign, and as soon as we've reviewed your discharge plan, you are officially out of here." He taps at the paperwork. "Requisite paperwork hell." Smiles among them seem to relax John at least, with Sherlock, not too much changes. "Your last dose of enoxaparin was last evening, and that can be stopped. Make sure you're as active as you can be within what you're able to do." The anticoagulant injections, John knows he won't miss at all. "Low strength aspirin until your own GP decides otherwise. You're still at risk for clot, deep vein thrombosis, so be vigilant. Here are your prescriptions." He hands them to John, who flips through them. There aren't many, one for pain, another for swelling, and an as-needed one for a nebulizer treatment in case of bronchospasm, and then the oxygen order, the one for both physical therapy and a few home health visits.

"Most important, the antibiotic, knock this pneumonia on its arse. Take completely as prescribed." He waits for John to nod. "That means finish the course." Another pause, a raise of the doctors mildly amused eyebrow that stays until John smirks at his message ("non-compliant") and nods again. "Diet: no restrictions, but aim for balanced. Shower with a shower chair or take a bath with help at first, keep the cast dry - plastic bag, tape." John nods. "Change the chest tube dressing daily or if it gets wet or is draining, until it scabs over. Home care, nursing visits, for vital sign checks, wound care, monitoring. I would recommend home oximetry monitoring."

Sherlock is hovering, but at this point he draws a pulse oximeter from his pocket. "We have one." John doesn't even ask where it came from but isn't surprised.

"Perfect. And yes, good idea. Your last chest X-ray from this morning still shows some residual pleural effusion, right lower lobe. It had measured moderate, now looks to be improving. The fluid takes time to just reabsorb, protein shifting and fluid leak, remember?" He takes in the fact that John is nodding, and turns to Sherlock in case he needs clarification.

"Osmotic pressure gradient." Sherlock lets a small, knowing smile show, and Dr. Snyder sighs, keeping it mostly quiet but letting the dramatic pause take the place of whatever comment could have been said. Sherlock and John exchange another glance and rather quickly with deft fingers, Sherlock adjusts his shirt collar, which John notices right off, prompting another memory. Both of them are thinking 'show off' though neither speaks it. Neither needs to.

"Exactly, yes. Make sure you're getting enough protein in your diet, it'll help with the oedema throughout, but especially inside your chest." He gestures to the cannula, the oximetry clip. "Normal lungs, should be ninety-five or better. Current recommendations can't actually agree on the perfect number, but I'm satisfied with low nineties as long as you're not air hungry." He waits for affirmation that both of them understand the term. "I've written for four liters for transport. No negotiations." He smiles a bit to soften his directive. "Once you get home, you can wean the oxygen, two liters to start, keeping oximetry greater than ninety-two, ninety when ambulating. If you have to go up to say, four or six liters consistently, call your GP, get checked out with maybe another X-ray. Wear it at night for the time being, then once you get to the place when you're off it during the day, set it to alarm at eighty-nine at night and try room air while you're sleeping. You can expect that it will definitely wake you at first, take some deep breaths and try again. Exertion or wheezing, use the nebulizer, and go by a combination of the numbers plus how you're feeling. It's going to take a while. Use the pain meds so that you are comfortable enough to breathe deeply and stay active. Continue with the incentive spirometer, ten times every hour while awake, just like now. Take it with you for the ambulance ride. It'll be a good way to pass the time. And mark your progress."

He looks between them. "Questions about your lungs, your treatment plan, your meds?" When both of them keep quiet and shake their heads no, he points at the foot which is already inside the boot that had been fitted by one of the physical therapists. "Now this," he starts.

++

Two physical therapists arrive with an off-hand comment about John's accommodations and arms full of various other paraphernalia. One wears a bright orange gait transfer belt casually over his shoulder. Obviously they have been forewarned about John's background, because one of them is holding computer printouts. The other an unwieldy box that John is fairly certain contains the previously mentioned the walking boot.

"Is now a good time?" is the first question, and John puts a cautionary hand on Sherlock's arm before he fires off a scathing retort that will almost definitely begin with who-the-hell-are-you? and then contain the words 'idiot' and 'obviously.' He nods after glaring at Sherlock, who simply glares back at him even more fiercely but keeps his mouth - thankfully - shut. "I have your MRI findings. Dr. Snyder should have told you already?” and when John nods, he keeps talking, “Mostly soft tissue damage.”

“This printout of the report summary you can have." John’d already been told about the oedema, the density from haematoma around the calcaneous, the lines of swelling, the still-obscured calcaneofibular ligamental sections too swollen to be completely diagnostic. "So right now, this is not a surgical situation, as we understand. Doc ordered a walking boot." They descend on John's lower leg, removing sheets, raising the bed, and unwrapping the elastic bandage that didn't seem to help much anyway. "Let's get that fitted, shall we?" There is an assessment of bruising, colour-movement-sensation of the toes, and gentle fingers find a few spots that are almost exquisitely point tender. "Boot'll offer protection, support while all of this heals."

They recommend a liner until the swelling is down and he will be able to apply a compression sock for his injured leg like the one that he is already wearing on his left leg. The straps align, his heel snugly into the back of the deep brace, the top piece fits overtop and thick, unwieldy velcro holds the rest in place. "Non weight bearing." They don't even qualify it or set any kind of a timetable. John tries not to grimace with discomfort at what the stiff, bulky apparatus is already doing in holding the ankle immovable, and they all seem to stare at John's toes as if waiting for them to do a trick. John's toes do not oblige, simply lie there. "Make sure you don't adduct your leg all of the time, rotating toes to the outside?" one of them explains and hesitates while Sherlock watches and John nods. "Or you can end up with hip flexor issues and pain there too." They tag-team some other survival tips, including the fact that once he is allowed to bear weight, that they may need to add some height to his other shoes to level out his stance.

A few more adjustments, and they place the bright belt around John's waist even though it is, again, simply a stand, pivot, and sit manoeuver into the chair right at the bedside. Everything feels heavy, and he needs help to elevate the surprisingly heavy boot onto a footstool and pillow. He breathes, frowns, and mutters a faint 'ow.' One of them produces an empty ice pack, goes off to replenish it, and there is conversation about pain medications, which John refuses for the moment.

There is discussion about his discharge plans and the follow-up care he will need eventually. "Mobility is going to be a challenge, John. Just being honest. Do you have a lot of steps at home?"

John shakes his head, distracted by the sensation of the boot and how awful it looks and feels. "Only two, one at the kerb ..." He stops at Sherlock's deliberate and attention-getting clearing of his throat. His mind is elsewhere, and he looks up at Sherlock with puzzled annoyance. "What?"

Sherlock stares and and studies John, whose mind is otherwise engaged to realise his blunder. "Not two steps, John."

A self-deprecating caustic laugh comes from John. "No, right. Seventeen steps from street to flat." He shakes his head. _"Seventeen."_

"Okay so stairs," and the therapists seem unruffled. "No problem. Handrail?" There are two nods. "Lead with your good leg, then, handrail and help." They explain a little further. "The stairs, then, two options: forward facing with someone under your arm, or backwards and you scoot up on your bum."

"See, I told you," Sherlock says in a stage whisper.

"It's manageable. When the motivation is there, yeah? Home is always worth it."

"I hope so," John quips a little nervously. "Can that be loosened a little?" John asks, reaching down toward the brace. "Across the instep?"

They remove it completely to assure his skin is intact, then work for a few minutes on a more comfortable fit before continuing with their instructions and some suggestions for home. "And crutches are out of the question with your arm. So for mobility, your only non-weight bearing option is a wheeled scooter." One of them produces a brochure. "Pick one up in London." Sherlock tries to snatch the brochure away from John, who holds tight with a growl.

"I'm picking it out," John threatens. "And I hope it comes in light blue to match my cast."

++

"Soft tissue injury. See an orthopedic surgeon in your area in about two weeks, to follow up on your foot, and your arm come to think of it. They'll decide about the cast removal in another couple weeks. I already ordered copies of your studies, the lower extremity MRI specifically, to a disc to send with you. He or she may want a re-eval then, or to wait a bit. Physical therapy, non-weight bearing, once you get home, to help with getting around, any residence modifications if you need, grab bars, that type of thing. PT left you a brochure on a knee scooter, a padded wheeled thing, handlebars?" John nods, gestures to the ever-growing pile he will be taking home with him. "A wheelchair in the short time might --"

"No." John is curt, abrupt, and both his tone and delivery are quite emphatic that he will brook no further discussion.

"Okay then," and Dr. Snyder glances to Sherlock, who shrugs in mostly agreement with John. 'Take the boot off at night and to shower but that's it. So elevate, stay off it, ice if it helps, anti-inflammatories, really let that rest. Usually boot therapy, for something like this, six weeks minimum." He is reading from a list, but looks up to make sure they were still focused. "You must've stomped like hell on the brake, John. No driving until further notice."

"Or ever," John says with a shudder, wearing a bit of a haunted look, serious. Sherlock sees, stares, and John seems to be getting quieter as the instructions are done and time is getting closer.

The frown remains on John's face, and Dr. Snyder takes notice of it too. "I would recommend a pain pill before transport, the jostling and such. It's a long ride, then, yeah?"

"Little more than seven hours straight through." Sherlock speaks up when John does not. "Longer for stops."

"The crew will take good care of you." He pauses, but neither of them volunteer anything. "It'll be good to get back to familiar territory for you." Sherlock watches John continue to almost shut down and Dr. Snyder is quite attentive. "I'm sorry we couldn't get you off the oxygen first, would have given you other, non-flight options anyway, John."

"It's okay," John says but the other two can hear the lie. "Sherlock and Rosie'll be waiting for me once I get to London."

Dr. Snyder produces a pen, makes a note. "I'm having our pharmacy dispense alprazolam, too, small dose. Keep it in your pocket for the ride," and Dr. Snyder catches Sherlock's eye, and they both stare at John, who is completely closed off again, looking down at his hands, looking right miserable, "so in case the trip gets overwhelming, too long, you'll have it if you need it." John risks a glance up at the doctor, and in that brief eye exchange, both of them acknowledge that there was apparently some information passed along from the night shift nurse, the one who cared enough to sit and talk. The one who John had voiced his fear about being in a vehicle again.

"I won't take it." John's voice is flat. "Don't bother."

A raised brow, a questioning look from Sherlock between them, and John smiles coolly, but is resolute. Dr. Snyder continues. "I'm doing it anyway, but suit yourself. At least you'll have it. Your choice. Sleeping on a long trip is another nice way to pass the time." He sighs as he is to the end of his spiel. "Questions?" he asks, and John shakes his head. There is a clipboard produced, and quietly John signs and initials every place he is directed to do so. "It's official, and the nurse will be back with your copies. Best wishes on your continuing recovery." Dr. Snyder shakes John's hand, then clasps his arm in a fond farewell, then turns to Sherlock, points at him with a no-nonsense affect, and says, "I'll talk to you in the hallway."

Sherlock's face turns sober, but he nods, rises, and follows the doctor out.

++

"Okay, what was that all about?" John asks, a guarded look still in his eyes, when Sherlock comes back in.

"He said we can resume all sexual activity as soon as you're up for it." Too fast of a delivery, canned and pre-planned, a red herring.

"He did not." John is not even particularly fazed.

"He advised me to expect some irritability as you get better." Sherlock shrugs, tipping his head in amusement. "I told him that I'm always irritable so we'll never know. Turns out he was talking about you, so I mentioned that your baseline temperament is also irritable. That irritable is normal for both of us." There is a flurry of incoming texts, and Sherlock seems a little relieved but doesn't share any content. Nanny coordination, probably, John thinks, knowing that the trip isn't going to be all that easy for any of them.

"Sherlock?" John asks but is ignored

His mobile continues to hold his interest, and John considers grabbing his own to send a non-complimentary and harassing text of his own just to be heard, decides not to bother.

"Yeah, sorry, just tying up last minute details."

John is skeptical, but lets it go. "What time is your train out, you and Rosie?" The nanny, fortunately, had been able to give them a few hours that morning, and Sherlock had told John there would be a rendezvous at the hospital that morning. "You and Rosie already have train tickets yeah?" John's voice is low, controlled, and tight. "Because I guess you'll need to leave pretty soon."

"Is that a just rip the damned plaster off already? A get out?" Sherlock is vague, and uncomfortable. There is something coming, brewing, heavy in the air. "John."

John can almost get the sense that the bottom is about to drop out of his morning. "What's wrong? We're still meeting tonight in London?" The plans had been, John in the ambulance, a few stops along the way probably, and his trip was looking to be over seven hours. Sherlock and Rosie, a higher speed train into London, scheduled only a five hour duration. "Sherlock, are you and Rosie catching a train or not?"

"Not exactly."

"Oh god, what's wrong now? Did you decide to fly?" John is watching Sherlock's face and trying not to fret - already nervous about the trip, the crew he will be dependent on, so many hours in a vehicle, wondering how Sherlock and Rosie will almost certainly be terrorising the train and each other, and now whatever else Sherlock is up to. "I swear, Sherlock, I don't think taking her on a plane is a good idea, her ears and cramped spaces --"

Another incoming text on Sherlock's mobile, and he nods, sighs. "Thank god." His thumbs fly, and he looks at John with much relief. "Change of plans just finalised. A good change of plans. Looks like I'll be able to come with you in the ambulance."

"And how exactly, is that supposed to happen?"  John lets out a faint growl of frustration. There is movement at the door that John is only vaguely aware of, so irritated is he at Sherlock and his mobile and the whole bloody day that he misses it. "Jesus, Sherlock, what were you thinking? She can't be cooped up in there, not in the back with me. Or is Rosie just going to ride the bloody train by herself?"

"No, we thought she would come with us." Standing at the doorway, newly arrived, a familiar face and a sweet voice. "Hi, John." The tone and pitch is gentle and caring - and very out of context. Molly Hooper. _Molly, holding Rosie._ Rosie is clinging, smiling, comfortable, John sees, even though it has been a few weeks since they'd been in touch.

And Mycroft, a pace behind her. "Dr. Watson," Mycroft's greeting is cool, and it is offset by the sparkling smile on Molly's face, who does not wait for permission or invitation but hurries to John's side. An awkward, bending-over while holding a toddler hug happens, and it is only when Rosie starts to slip that Molly straightens up.

Sherlock lets out his own growl. "You were supposed to wait for my signal. I hadn't even --" Turning apologetically to John, Sherlock begins again, intense. "I only just now got official permission to ride with you in the ambulance in the first place, and I was about to tell you."

The adults seem momentarily at a loss for words, but Rosie spies the yellow plastic, green-lidded can of play-doh, and turns into a wriggling bug until Molly sets her down so she can get it. Immediately, she hugs John again, then draws back to ask, "Are you all right?" She chuckles a little then, taking into account the boot, the cast, all the bruises, the steri-strips on his face, and answers her own question, "Because you look bloody awful."

The tension is defused, a little, and Sherlock stands at the foot of John's bed, arms akimbo. "Git," he seethes at Mycroft. Knowing he owes John the rest of the explanation, he begins with the timing of the trip, the thought of John alone in the ambulance, and tells him that very quickly these arrangements came together, with final ambulance crew permission only minutes ago. "I didn't want to tell you in case it didn't work. I thought maybe it would be worse, that way, if ..."

"They still came up here, though." John glances about but then waits for Sherlock.

"They've been with Rosie a while." Sherlock had arranged for some overlap to ensure Rosie would adapt and be comfortable. "Plans B and C involved renting a car and us all following behind the ambulance, possibly making a few stops if needed, pre-arrangements with the possibility of an overnight at a medical facility if you needed, half way home, and plan D might have involved multiple oxygen tanks and a private train car, private duty nurses, and ... dispensation from the Church of England."

Mycroft snorts just a little. "Plan B actually involved high level negotiations --"

"Extortion." Sherlock tries to hide the word in a cough, unsuccessfully.

"-- and we were all optimistic it would need go no farther." John has no doubt that some strong-arming would have been brought to the table.

"So the plan now?" John asks, still quite serious, glancing between those in his room.

"I'll be riding with you. Those three," Sherlock says, nodding and then grinning as Rosie offered small bits of play-doh to his brother and a huge portion to Molly, "are still taking a train."

"With enough at hand to entertain a small preschool," Mycroft chimes in.

With a huge surge of relief, John understands, and realises that his ride in the ambulance is now not going to be with strangers, ostensibly alone, and there is a full-body burst of endorphins and catecholamines, a mitigated stress response, a sense of well-being beginning to settle. "All right." He blows out a slow breath, nodding at Sherlock, who still looks worried at his reaction. "Okay."

"I tried to tell you. They've been here a few hours now, enjoying Rosie and wanting to see you." He stares at Mycroft, who is making a positively appalled face at the texture and scent of the lump of green he is holding out at a distance from him between somewhat repulsed fingers. "Must've ran out of patience."

"Molly was most anxious to visit," he excuses them. "And Sherlock was being unreasonably protective." Mycroft's nose tips and he and Sherlock exchange sour faces at each other. "Controlling." Mycroft turns a studious stare at John, who feels somehow like his brain has been scanned again, laid bare, exposed. Mycroft's eye narrows, and he then looks with equal intensity at Sherlock for a long appraisal. "Interesting," he says with a wry smirk. A brow raises, questioning his brother non-verbally and then punctuating with the angle of his head, and it seems that he has more to say.

"Piss off," Sherlock snaps at him quickly, and is ready to unload a real torrent of unpleasantness when there is an interruption.

Footsteps, a bold voice at the door, along with a brisk knock. John's nurse, chuckling at the little she's overheard and shaking her head at their obvious and childlike fussing. "Ambulance crew just called. They're about thirty minutes out." She looks at John, the IV, the supplies that are mostly all packed, and the baggy pyjamas Sherlock brought that are waiting. "Much as I'm in to tender, drawn-out goodbyes, you folks have about five minutes and then Dr. Watson and I have a lot of things to do before they get here." John realises he isn't dreading the travel nearly as much, and is rather anxious to leave. The nurse sees his eagerness as she sets all of his discharge paperwork on the table with his mobile, his incentive spirometer. "My mum always told me to make sure to use the facilities before a road trip, too. I'm giving you notice for that too."

"Yes ma'am," he is beyond ready, now, and looking forward to it.

"Pain number," she asks. "Discharge orders include pain med before you leave," she explains.

"Three," he answers.

She hesitates, puts a hand on her hip at him, challenging him, suspecting that he is under-reporting.

"Maybe a four."

"Pain pill," she says, producing a hand-held scanner from her pocket, and offers the tablet in a med cup out to John. Obligingly, he holds out his name band, gives his name and date of birth he hopes for the last time, then washes down the pill with water. From her pocket, she produces and holds out a single, unit dose of a small pill in a labeled plastic bag. "Dr. Snyder wanted to make sure this goes with you."

The sound of a plastic container hitting the floor distracts them all. Rosie cackles as she approaches Mycroft, fists full of green play-doh, and grabs his trousers, leaving big green streaks and handprints on his bespoke clothing. Molly utters a quiet gasp, John is silent though his shoulders shake with the laughter trying to break free, Sherlock smug. Mycroft's expression, they all agree, is absolutely  _priceless._

++

The nurse jumps through a few additional hoops with his discharge process. She explains the concept of the 'teach back' means of discharge instructions that, though a necessary evil, to Sherlock were just more tedium, more delay, annoying given his history and his profession, but John presses on, cooperative. Yes I know when to call 999, yes I can state side effects of pain medication, yes I understand what to watch for when assessing skin near a cast, yes I will follow up with my own providers, yes, yes, _yes._ The stretcher and ambulance crew arrives, and John is dressed, packed, stretchered, and impatient to get out of the room. Finally, his discharge is blessed, and he is just eager to get out of the bloody hospital.

A flurry of goodbyes with the nurses and other random hospital associates stop to wave, call out good wishes, and otherwise offer their congratulations as they finally move out.

A few other farewells, to Rosie who doesn't understand it and to Molly and Mycroft who have a long day ahead of them as well. Molly has taken Rosie, willingly, happily, and they along with Mycroft are on their way, leaving by train shortly, meeting later, much later, at Baker Street. There are a few see you later's exchanged, a hug from Molly, Rosie, and Sherlock and John. Mycroft hangs back but does inform Sherlock and John that he will remain at the flat to help get John inside later that evening, and settle him in. Mrs. Hudson is apparently also on pins and needles, tenterhooks, and dinner is in the works and will be waiting for them in a warmer when they arrive just in case. The frequent texts and updates from Mrs. H are largely ignored. Sherlock speaks the word "delete" every time one arrives from her, and John has shushed him a few times with a phrase of his own, "be nice." John's belongings, suitcase from the hotel room along with Rosie's, have all been accounted for, packed along on the train, and the boys will carry only the barest necessities with them in the ambulance.

Though he is anxious to get on the road, he has a quick errand to run first. Despite all the other arrangements that John didn't know about, Sherlock has helped, brought what he'd asked for, and is standing by. He would be hard pressed to tell John 'no' after recent events.

John has requested very quick stop off in the trauma ICU, to see the nurses one final time, say thanks, drop off something for them. The arrangements are set, the crew surprisingly willing, the rig standing by in the designated car park.

The crew settles John, elevates the head of the stretcher, tucks a blanket in, assures his oxygen tubing is still connected, flowing, and off they go in the direction of the ICU. Though John doesn't really remember leaving the ICU, leaving his hospital room as a discharged person, being close to leaving the hospital feels amazing and a real step toward wellness.

++

The first sentence John hears is one of alarm, "Are we expecting an admission?" followed by a protective, "Can I help you?" Then, more animation: "Oh my god, look who it is!"

A couple of the nurses look up from either patient, chart, computer, or heart monitor at the desk as John arrives around the corner into the ICU. A few of the faces are vaguely, distantly familiar, the surroundings, not at all.

Sherlock though, settles, smiles, exchanges some pleasantries with quite a few of them, and there are updates exchanged and shared. For all the warmth John receives, it seems that the longer hug, the greater animation, is more directed at Sherlock than himself. Which, as he thinks of it, makes sense.

John is a little taken aback, watching Sherlock seek out their eyes and not shy away from their embraces. Eight days of his ICU stay, John realises, Sherlock was here too. 

"Blue," one of the nurses says to him from John's side, her hand tapping lightly in the direction of his cast. "I knew it would be smart." To John, she chuckles, standing close and conveying warmth and compassion, her eyes sparkling as she looked between them. "Quite the decision, cast colour, but he stuck with it, picked light blue just for you. Pretty close, in my opinion, to your eye colour, just like he said."

"I didn't say that, _you_ did." Sherlock looks mildly uncomfortable, but the nurse grins, places a hand on both of their arms.

She smirks then, right into Sherlock's face. "You chose it, I just realised why. You agreed with me." Sherlock fusses, ready to complain. "Well, or at least, you didn't disagree. It was ultimately your decision." She holds up a hand, defensively, and laughs at John. "Wow, I thought maybe he'd soften up for you, be a little easier to deal with once you were recovering, but _no-oo_."

"Time to leave," Sherlock says impatiently but with a laugh, but clearly John sees he is eager to get away from this nurse who saw quite a bit, and he wonders at what else was picked up on. And what else they probably talked about.

"Oh please, you were willing to come in here with me. Be nice or go away," John says, imperiously demanding from the stretcher and yet not serious enough that he is actually requesting to be left alone. "I don't remember much," he says, though he can hear the familiar chime of monitor bells, ventilator alarms, that part he does recall.

"Thank goodness." This from one of the nurses John doesn't recognise.

"But I remember enough." He sees happy smiles, settles on the one nurse, whose friendly face was there when he was in such pain and not thinking clearly, "Something I'd like to tell you."

"John, some of them might actually have needy, annoying patients to attend to, so keep it brief." Sherlock huffs lightly.

"Nope, that terrible needy patient's leaving us today," someone else says. "Leaving the building, I hear."

John gets to the point, and he speaks low to the nurse he remembers, finding that part easier. "I just wanted to tell you you guys are amazing. What you did for me. And you, handling Sherlock. He's ... a tough one, and I appreciate you taking care of me and of him." His voice is low, but certainly audible to Sherlock as well, and John knows, doesn't care. Clearly emotion is running high between them, the expressed appreciation, the sincerity. It is a sobering consideration how sick he was, how unstable and unpredictable his course. "Because I know you all did. And you made his hell a lot easier to bear." Although John doesn't remember a lot of the misery of his ICU days, everyone else does, and he knows it was touch and go, a rocky time. "Thank you, all of you, for everything."

The nurse reaches out for John's hand, and her eyes are actually wet at John's words, at the emotion of seeing him doing so much better. "Oh, you're welcome of course. Take care of that one," and she tilts her head in Sherlock's direction, "he's a keeper. And I'm sure you are too." She chuckles then, seeking lighter air, less drama, and squeezes John's fingers before letting go. "Whose driving the damn ambulance today, eh?" One of the uniformed crew waggles a hand. "Safe trip," she says, "Take your time. And take care of these two, yeah?"

Sherlock hands over the bag John had requested - assorted coffees, teas, snacks, and a thank you card.

Less becomes more, eye contact conveying the seriousness, the intent, the gratitude, and John is wheeled away, Sherlock and the crew, scant belongings, and a trail of goodbyes and well wishes. Later on that day, the nurses will receive another patient from surgery, extremely critical, and work hard, hustle to save a motorcycle accident victim, but be unable. John's visit, they decide afterward, all the more poignant given the outcome, had been just what they'd needed.

++

Sherlock stares at John, who reclines in the back of the ambulance on the stretcher, seat belt that straps him in loosened slightly. John's eyes are closed, the oxygen prongs in properly, and his chest rises and falls. The medic that is accompanying him watches them both, eyes taking in John's assessment, colour, and the continuous pulse oximeter they'd insisted on. John had fussed, swore, and turned his irritation at Sherlock who he fully expected to take his side. Instead, Sherlock had caved and John had descended into giving them all the silent treatment. He is still silent, and though his eyes are closed, he is not asleep. Sherlock watches, and more, he sees. Sherlock knows. The deliberate ignoring of him, that stoic irritability, the stubborn refusal to engage, Sherlock is mostly okay with. It gives him time to reassess. To consider what he'd been told that morning by John's physician.

Dr. Snyder, actually, had said no such thing to Sherlock in the hallway, not about sex, not simply saying goodbye. Not about expected irritability, either.

"What concerns specifically do you have?"

Sherlock had simply looked, blinked, kept quiet.

"Listen, I've been doing this a long time, and have watched a lot of people, lot of family members, navigate a crisis." The pace in the hallway had been certainly busy, people milling, working, a chorus of activities and support services. "We can go talk somewhere if you need."

"I'm needed here." Sherlock had spoken the obvious truth. "John needs me."

"Okay, but I'm telling you -- no, actually I'm warning you, that you need to take care of yourself too. If it means extra help at home, get it. Help with that adorable little girl. When people ask what they can do, give them something. Let them come over while you go out, ask them to bring dinner, take John to appointments. Consider letting them free you up from the more mundane stuff so that you can be there for John." Dr. Snyder does not seem rushed. "Listen to me, it's not unusual for going through something like this to be very overwhelming, very emotional when it hits him how bad it was. And it's exhausting for both of you."

"I can handle it."

"I've seen that. You've been amazing for him, truly. And he was sick as shit, and on the mend now. But there's more ahead."

"Yes, I was quite present for your long-winded discharge instructions, you recall."

Dr. Snyder doesn't let his jibe disrupt him. "Remember, this is a marathon, not a sprint." He pauses, and Sherlock doesn't immediately respond to that. "You understand what I mean by that?"

"Of course I do, I'm not an idiot."

"Wow," Dr. Snyder chuckles at the abrasiveness, the lack of tact not a surprise after these weeks and surprisingly refreshing. "Okay then. Make sure to care for yourself from time to time. Don't burn yourself out in the first couple of weeks." He watches Sherlock with amusement until Sherlock cracks a piece of a smile himself. "Doctor's orders."

That at least lets the small burst of a laugh break out as Sherlock's irritation diminishes a little. "We're fine."

"Hopefully that is the case. It may very well be. However, I would have felt remiss had I not said it, though. You have permission yourself, from me, to take a break if needed. It's healthy --" he offers a few more sentences that Sherlock partially tunes out.

Sherlock considered how tired he actually was, had lost track of days on one level even as he knew it had been thirteen, that John's accident had been fourteen days from approximately nine o'clock tonight, previously. Or was it fifteen? The fact that he could be off a day is sobering, and he hears the underlying message of the doctor who has made a point, an effort, to corner him in the hallway to talk, somewhere away from John. When Dr. Snyder pauses, waiting for a response, he nods his head slowly. "I hear you." After a moment, he explains that he has recruited some help with transporting John's daughter, that they had a housekeeper even as he knew Mrs. Hudson would shriek at his statement. John's voice again in his head, gently, prodding, _Sherlock, he's just concerned, trying to help._ "So I've listened, and it's ... smart advice I guess. I ... appreciate it." 

Dr. Snyder presses his business card into Sherlock's hand, from where it goes into his shirt pocket. From the room behind them, they both hear conversation, Rosie chortling in the room, and Dr. Snyder smiles again. "Wish you both the best," and his hand reaches out toward Sherlock.

"Thanks," Sherlock says, meaning it, but says it again anyway, his voice thick and a small frown about his brow before shaking the outstretched palm. "For everything."

The highway signs flash by, road noise, the sound of the diesel engine a dull roar. He flicks his thumb over the corner of the business card through the material of his shirt as the kilometers count down. John is still resting, facing rearward while Sherlock is seat-belted in sideways on the bench, in the back of the ambulance. He is beginning to feel like once they get home, get settled, they'll be just fine. Now and again, the medic takes John's blood pressure. The incentive spirometer has been used a few times. The medic watches the pulse oximeter. Checks the oxygen gauge. Makes a few documentation notes.

And then, not an uncommon occurrence while driving or riding, there is a sudden lurch of the ambulance accompanied by the faintest exclamation of profanity by the driver as a car in front of them threatens to dart into their path. The driver corrects, jerking the wheel quickly to avoid any sort of contact, and utters another profanity, and then everything - the driver, the crew, Sherlock, and the ambulance vehicle itself even - settles back down to normal driving again. Tyres sound smoothly on the road, the tachometer regains the usual speed and sound. Nothing has changed, no harm done, everything back to the status quo.

Everything, that is, except John. His eyes are wide open, mouth tight, skin pale, arms both clutching the narrow stretcher that he's laying on, tense, and scared to death. His shoulders are up close to his ears, as if bracing for a collision.

Sherlock sees, knows immediately what happened, why John is terrified, and he loosens his seat belt to shift forward, leans near the stretcher to get in his line of sight. "Hey. You're okay." He takes John's hands in both of his, one of them obviously more awkward because of the cast. They are clammy, stiff, ice cold. "You're okay."

John turns to stare imploringly at Sherlock. "I'm not okay," he hisses.

The other crew member is watching them too, looking at John, the monitors, takes into account their location - a more rural stretch of road, plenty of access, spots to pull off. He turns to speak over his shoulder to the driver. "We're going to need a rest break back here. Now. Some fresh air." The driver makes an affirmative sound, and there is the sound of a turn signal, the vehicle slowing, and they pull into a parking lot. He cuts the engine off.

Sherlock unclips his seat belt immediately, slides to his knee so that he is facing John, right beside him, and pays little attention to anything else while the driver gets out. Each crew member opens up the back of the ambulance - the double doors at the rear where John was loaded from, the sliding door along the side, and stand looking at them expectantly. The fresh air, the openness is helpful, he thinks. He hopes.

With a minimum of fuss, Sherlock turns to speak to them. "Give us a few minutes, here. Alone."

++

On the side of a road somewhere mid-way between London and Edinburgh, an ambulance sits in an out of the way corner of a parking lot. Two crew members, uniformed, chatting, stand under a tree a short distance from the vehicle. Both keep eyes on the ambulance now and again that if they are summoned, they will be instantly available. The ambulance doors, back and side, are thrown open on behalf of the occupants, for fresh air, for less of a closed-in atmosphere, for better visual landscape than the inside of the vinyl, utilitarian design and functional equipment storage. Gray skies and cooler temperatures are welcome given that both have been in a hospital for the lions share of the past two weeks.

Inside the ambulance, there is silence as the man on the stretcher bends his knee, pushes over to make room for the other man to lean in, to get closer. A loose embrace, shoulders touching, one arm behind the patient's neck, a tucking in of heads together, a casted arm behind the other's back, holding, secure, steady, and warm. Their breath meets while long fingers steal completely inside the soft tee shirt collar of the laying man, knuckles pressing into skin, each contact - head, shoulders, arms, hands, a knee against a kneeling thigh - welcome. _Needed._

A few centering minutes elapse before a bit of a moan sounds from the man on one knee. "We should likely not delay too much longer, if you think you're okay to proceed." He presses back enough that he can meet the other's eyes. "Plus, leg's falling asleep." A small smile followed by a distinct change of position.

"Wanna trade places?" the patient whispers and plucks at the oxygen tubing as if making an offer.

"You know I would if ..."

From the stretcher, the man reaches out a hand to slide it behind the neck of the man leaning over him, pulls, their movements relaxed and with sure intention. Lips meet, press, turn, slide, and linger. Two mouths part, tentative tongues just barely coming together, a tease, a plea, a promise. The crouching man, lest he end up splayed out across the narrow stretcher, wedges his arm alongside the other's ribs to stabilise his position leaning over. A back arches into the touch, pushing upward into the kiss and shifting into every part of the other man he is capable of contact against.

The murmuring of voices. "God I can't wait to get home."

"Home," the other murmurs, "there was a time in the hospital I thought it would never happen, that you weren't going to recover." Their foreheads touch, a reminder, an assurance, _we'll be okay_. "You all right if we get rolling again?" All it takes is a raised hand, a beckoning, and the medics notice, begin to make their way over.

"Yes." But there is a timidity there. "No way out but through."

"Home."

"Home, yes." A seal of lips again, a promise, an _I'm here, and I'm not leaving._

_Home. Yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IPF - idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis is indeed rather rare, and is not but could have been causing John's symptoms. It's a common source of anxiety within the medical profession, both knowing and seeing "too much."
> 
> The scooter recommended by physical therapy is a great option for John given his non-weight-bearing status and arm limitations.
> 
> ++
> 
> As always please let me know gently if there’s an issue, typo, whatever, or if you’re still reading!
> 
> Two more chapters to go. Plenty of warm fuzzies, bed-sharing, and some new and previously unexplored firsts on Baker Street.
> 
> And we can expect the final installment of the bowl's journey. Kintsugi indeed.


	14. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a forward time-slide as the artist and his work finally intersect paths with our boys.
> 
> ++
> 
> I am shortening this chapter and adding another. Thanks for understanding. This chapter was supposed to be the last... I am so ready for their happy ending!
> 
> Brief recap: John's been injured in a car accident in Scotland, and Sherlock has been with him almost from the beginning. They are en route back to London, John and Sherlock in an ambulance; Mycroft, Rosie, and Molly have returned by train. John has some recovery ahead of him as his injuries heal. When we left them at the end of the last chapter, they were still in the back of the ambulance on their way home.

_The artist sketches an idea, an ethereal broad pencil draft of what is just beginning to take shape for his next project, a new media this time, more of a clay and metal sculpture than anything he’s worked on before. He tunes out the street traffic, mind focused, ignoring the mid-morning hustle, shoppers, business men in transit, a few fitness aficionados, bicyclists._

_The chime of the bell over the door rings as the door opens._

_The artist glances up, his breath catching as he sees. It is the pair from the street from the other day, who'd stopped at his window. The admirers. A quick glance, he takes in the walking boot of the shorter of the two, the taller one holding the handles of a push chair. A small girl, obviously the genetics of the lighter-haired one, the injured one, sits in it._

_They have returned._

_He watches, and the similarities ring out.  Just as the scars in the ceramic are enhanced with the golden repair, the careful breaking and mending, he sees more in the visitors. These two are not what they once were, but better together. Something about their prior window visit stuck with them, would not let them rest until they came back._

_Pain will be healed. Brokenness, restored. It calls. Beckons._

_An eerie sense comes over him. This is it. He has been waiting. More importantly, the piece, his work - has been waiting for this moment._

_The faint strains of a cello, a viola, and a quiet violin sounds, from the vicinity of the storefront, in his mind. Faint strings become a chord, joined by keys, a synthesiser fades in, lightly, background. The fill is sweet and tender, the swell of the music, pristine. It is soothing and right and peaceful. Meant to be, the artist is sure of it._

_"How much for that ... extraordinary ... piece in the window?" The tall one asks and his voice catches on the word extraordinary. He understands. His tone, respectful and appreciative. Some tension in the other adult, concern over something ... price, perhaps? Second glance, actually, it is more physical. Discomfort. Pain._

_Extraordinary pain._

_The artist smiles. “I’m sure we can agree on a fair price.”_

_++_  

London itself feels wonderful. The gray of the sky, the occasional bursts of sunshine that he can watch from the pair of small windows out the back of the ambulance as they get closer to Westminster, to Baker Street, to Rosie and home.

John’s trip has been an endless, stiff, ridiculous, nauseating, backwards-riding monotonous affair. The alprazolam is unopened in his pocket, and though he was only once tempted to take it, having the choice was an empowering position. His decision, his choice, his control, his opting to be strong.

Sherlock sits near him, occasionally turning sideways, his own legs of course tired of riding and their quarters. But at least he can fidget and move more than John. Now and again, he opens the map on his mobile, tracking their journey. The blue line initially spanning many kilometers, distance, time, and potential frustrations now shorter, time remaining finally counting down to manageable, just get there already.

Just the one not-even-an incident, another driver, a harmless correction from behind the wheel of the ambulance, some panic for the patient, and a much-needed rest stop. The rest of the journey, a few stops for food, exchange of crew members behind the wheel, incidentals, bathroom break/urinal usage depending on the occupant mobility, fuel refilling, a fitful nap, and mostly just tedium.

"Why are you frowning?"

John leaves his head where it is leaned against the cushioned stretcher, but opens one eye. The look conveys it all - I can't wait for this to be over.

Sherlock smiles, nods, reaches over to press his hand on top of John's uninjured one. "Not much further." He picks up John's incentive spirometer, making sure to wriggle it enough as he does that John can hear the rattling of the little plastic indicator, holds it out.

"Piss off." John says, not moving a muscle to take it. “No.”

"John."

"God Sherlock, just stop. _No._ I'm done with that."

Sherlock has, the few hours previously, had to push a bit, remind John of the necessity, the point. This time, he opts for a different means. Toward the front of the ambulance, he delivers a few sentences to the crew. "Looks like we're going to need to pull over, mates, stop for a bit until John ceases his childish temper tantrum, as it were."

John's eyes close immediately, the shape of his jaw changes as he clenches his teeth in absolute anger. " _Give me the damn thing._ And tell the driver that if he so much as slows down unnecessarily again, I'm taking over behind the wheel." All of them realise his threat is an empty one, but they hear his emotion, his desperation. "Or maybe, when I'm well, I'll be paying him a little visit."

"Going to Scotland again so soon, John? Really?" Sherlock begins to call his bluff. "Shall I call, then, and rent you a car?"

Oh, right, _nope_. “God no. Staying close to home for a while." He places the mouthpiece of the hated clear and blue plastic device between his lips, inhales slowly. The bellows rise, the indicator ball hovers. The third inspiration, he lowers it abruptly as a wracking cough seizes him and the pain radiates in his chest, his ribs.

A few breaths later, he settles, the bronchospasm relaxing, does the rest of the requisite ten.

"Smashing that with a hammer when this is over." He holds it out for Sherlock to take. "There's your bloody ten. And ask them to speed up, I'd like to be home before the next hour's torture is due."

"Small steps," Sherlock reminds him. "Overall progressing well."

Venomously, John continues to glare at the incentive spirometer. And then even more fiercely at Sherlock. "I'm not doing that again. Not in the back of this bloody ambulance."

"We're closer now than we were."

"Shut up. Not helpful." John reaches an arm up to find the lever, the clip that when squeezed allows him to lower the back of the stretcher. "I hate this."

"Perhaps I can direct your attention to something else then." John's eyes quickly cut over to Sherlock, who mutters, "Not that," and John shuts them again. "Distraction is not necessarily a bad thing, you know." John stays resolutely silent, until Sherlock clears his throat very faintly.

"I am not in the mood to be humoured." His eyes stay closed.

"I was thinking more along the lines of what awaits."

"Yes?" John smirks just a little. "Rosie." He is anxious to see her again after this long day, and to have the luxury of being with her rather than the visits of the past week or so. "They're doing okay?"

"Settling in, yes. Been there a few hours now. Molly says Rosie was very excited to see her things again." Sherlock shares with John, then, the text messages Molly's sent.

++

**Just arrived to Baker Street. Rosie and I are unpacking, but your brother claims he has "work to do"**

**He's out on the kerb, on his mobile. I think he's playing Candy Crush.**

**Rosie did well on the train, by the way. Though there may be a little green play-dough left behind on one of the seats.**

**Finished dinner, she's enjoying going up and down the stairs to her bedroom.**

**By the way, her room looks fantastic.**

**Medical equipment is here, all of it, and I've figured out the oxygen concentrator, and there's extra long tubing here.**

**Mycroft is glaring at me, did you text him about his playing a game on his mobile?**

**I think Rosie's afraid of the skull, so I draped a towel over it.**

**No, she's not afraid, she wants to play peek-a-boo with it now.**

**I just painted Rosie's nails. She's adorable. Hope the nail polish is okay with John.**

The final text is accompanied by a photo, the two of them cuddled up and smiling. Rosie's nails, indeed, are light pink. There is a smile on John's face as he reads, Sherlock notes, absolutely a smile of pleasure and affection. Apparently he is more than okay with the nail polish. 

John wishes, not for the first time, that he could just be there, on Baker Street. Or anywhere outside of this infernal moving vehicle. To just end this ... _bloody endless trip already._

A few more texts are exchanged, and Sherlock snickers with the latest update. "She and Mycroft have not yet come to blows. Unfortunately. He seems resolved to stay until we arrive."

The intent of Sherlock's statement, what awaits, an unpleasant association, and he frowns from behind his eyelids. "Anxious to see your bloody brother, are you?" Although unplanned, the momentary distraction does make John smile just faintly. "Thank god you didn't invite him in the ambulance. The thought of the lot of you, trapped together here," and his shoulders shake in distaste, the remainder of the sentence unspoken and unnecessary.

Sherlock groans just a bit, whispers the word Mycroft with a shudder. A chuckle accompanies his next suggestion, "I was thinking more along the lines of looking forward to tea." John's head shakes side to side slightly, mildly exasperated but quiet. " _Your_ tea."

"You really do need to learn to make it yourself."

"Actually, there is something else... " Sherlock plunges ahead. "You threatened to only enter Baker Street on your own, remember? On your own or not at all, as I recall your words." He watches John's face, where he lays, listens. "We'll figure it out, do our best of course, but I just want you prepared to reconsider. Compromise."

"Seventeen steps." John's lips purse, a long exhale, and wriggles his casted wrist. "Right, oxygen. Boot. Fun times ahead."

"Indeed." John turns his head away, and he feels Sherlock's hand slide into his own, squeeze, a tentative comfort. A connection. Their thumbs explore lightly, calloused skin and knuckle lines, warmth and sensitive enervation of fingertips. Their fingers lace. Nothing else matters at that precise moment, only that they journey together. The rest will have to wait.

++

Traffic slows and snarls as they get close, reminding them both of why they use public transportation and walk whenever possible. John glares at his boot - his walking days temporarily on hold - and sighs frequently until they, finally, _finally,_ pull to the kerb. It is past dusk, and he is knackered. _Done_.

The driver, after peering through the window, at the set up of their building, is the one who initiates the proceedings to get inside, before John can complain or think about it overmuch.

"Sherlock's taking the oxygen up behind you. I'm under your weaker side, he's coming up behind you." He produces a gait belt similar to the one John'd seen and used in the hospital, but this one has a few more straps, handles, and it is quickly buckled around his waist, fairly snugly. "Might be a tight fit in the stairwell, but angled slightly we'll be fine." John's brow is furrowed in concern, and he is more exhausted than he has a right to be given that he's only been sitting for the last interminable, eight hours to say nothing about the previous two weeks.

It occurs to him that he was even _sitting_ behind the wheel at the time of the accident.

Sherlock, nodding, takes his mobile out. "Texting Mrs. Hudson for the outer door," and thumbs fly for a moment, "and Mycroft for the inside."

A flash of activity, and the door to the street opens, Mrs. Hudson practically clapping her hands at their arrival, animatedly waving and smiling in the direction of her boys. Her fondness and relief are unmistakable. One floor up, the curtains open and Molly and Rosie are inside, with Molly pointing at the vehicle, though Rosie is holding the curtain and staring up at the curtain rod watching it flap, missing the happenings on the street as John is shifted about, helped to a sitting position on the step of the ambulance.

The driver is quite calm, despite his having had a long day, too, and addresses John at point blank range. "You're going to lead with your stronger side going up, use the rail. Don't hold your breath. If need be, we can absolutely rest a bit mid-point, long as you can help us support your weight with your arms." He hesitates, seeing John's worry. "Our other option is an out-and-out carry, but I hear you wanted to get inside on your own steam if possible." John glances over the man's shoulder and can see Sherlock, waiting, watching. He is nervous, too. A glance upwards finds Rosie in the upstairs window, having caught sight of him, her lips moving as if he could hear whatever she was saying. "Trust me, scooting up on your arse, backwards, lots of chest muscles involved, rib fractures are stable by this point, but there'll be pain. Plus not a lot of leverage from your hand, and the oxygen tubing... " He shrugs at John. "I don't recommend it."

"Fine." John is winded already, and he thinks, seventeen steps is all. "Let's do this." Rosie is waiting. He presses his weight up on his leg and eases his arms around the men there to help, feeling the pull and burn of under-used muscles, the stretch of still-healing ribs. A glance ahead through the open door, and he sees seventeen steps that might as well be Mount Everest.

++

"Couch," Sherlock directs, and tucks the oxygen tank securely next to it, and a few steps across the living room sees John to the point where he is lowered to the cushions. It has been a difficult past few minutes in the narrow stairwell, John attempting to suffer quietly while exerting himself, every muscle screaming, his breathing hard, his ribs aching, his injured foot, throbbing with change of position. His good leg, sore with unfamiliar use. And they managed, though, as Sherlock had cautioned, it was not exactly according to John's terms. The concentration and mental focus just as exhausting, John standing best he could, the boot sodding heavy and requiring assistance to hold it up by the time they'd taken the final stair step.

A few adjustments, and the ambulance crew along with Molly swap out the oxygen tubing from their portable tank to the waiting concentrator. John's entire body is shaky and weak after the exertion, the climb, and the room is oddly hushed but for the sound of just about everyone breathing heavily. Except Rosie, who chatters, a stuffed animal in her hand that she brings over to John. A quick glance at it, and John would have chuckled had he the energy to do so. The bright green bear is wearing a boot made of black electrical tape and a light blue wristlet made of a scrap of blue paper and cellotape.

Sherlock runs interference with the little girl before she either hurts John accidentally or is put off given his laboured breathing and focus on his own recovery. "Hey, how's Rosie?" he asks as he lifts her carefully to give her a quick cuddle before setting her next to John. Molly takes a quick seat next to them both, a book for distraction purposes held out, while Sherlock brushes both hands through his curls, thinking, a habit when focused on planning. There is a ridiculous amount of work to do now that they are home, belongings and settling John, immersing to the difference of being home versus being away and in the hospital. An entirely new location, though he knows Molly and Rosie have done much while waiting. Rosie, at least, seems quite acclimated as they had discussed and intended as Molly kept her there waiting. Priorities, he realises, are primarily right now John's well-being. He takes one of John's hands, slides the clip of the pulse oximeter over it, only to immediately have John flick it off with an annoyed flick of his thumb. "John," he warns.

"No, it's low," a few shallow rasps, "we all know it. Gimme a minute." Mycroft sees, watches, and catches Sherlock's eye, where their gaze locks for a moment. Mycroft seems to be offering assistance, but Sherlock shakes him off. John tips his head back, breathing deeply as he can, working hard, leaning against the back of the couch.

Sherlock insists, holding at John's hand and keeping the sensor in place. Though John tries to wrench away, he holds fast even when John opens his eyes to glare at everyone and seems as if he's thinking about throwing a punch, though given his current state, the threat is not real. Sherlock persists, directing, and orders quietly, "Stop it."

With an assertive throat-clearing sound, Mycroft clears his throat, rocks up on his toes a bit, and speaks to the ambulance crew. "Since it has fallen to me, thank you both very much for the safe, and successful, trip here." Though he is not speaking too loudly, he has at least distracted the rest of the room. "I'm sure you're looking to get started home, or at least, away from _this,"_ and he seems to be indicating the men on the couch, "before it gets any worse." He shakes his head just a little. "Must've been a dreadfully long trip with such unpleasant company."

"Piss off," Sherlock says quickly, under his breath, though John seems to be in complete agreement.

John and Sherlock both look over to find the crew packing their things, folding up the belt John'd worn, shouldering the portable oxygen tank. Brusquely, Sherlock approaches, hand extended, conveying his thanks as well as John's. A digital tablet is produced, Sherlock signs with his finger, and their bootsteps on the stairs grow quieter and finally the door shuts to the kerb.

Rosie has reached over, and with minimal encouragement from John, has pulled off the pulse ox sensor and is looking at the faint red dot of light inside it.

"Sneaky," Sherlock breathes, seeing that John has recruited Rosie to give excuse to his noncompliance, his non-cooperation, though the tension is less, and he takes a knee at Rosie and John's feet. "Let's put this back on daddy's finger where it belongs, here," and he begins to do as he threatens, "just like this, see?" Rosie helps slide it on, then claps her hands together with a chortle. "Oh, and look at your pretty fingernails!" he says, effectively taking her interest away from being John's co-conspirator and from her taking off the sensor again.

"Also sneaky." John feels too tired to even do much more glaring yet, but he cooperates this time. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft seem to be staring at him, and there is the mild awareness of being on display. Of found wanting. Defective.

"I made you some tea, John," Mrs. Hudson interjects then, and he opens an eye to see her sweet concerned face behind a proffered mug. "To welcome you home."

He is too tired for it, but knows better than to refuse. "Thanks, I'll get it in a sec." Something in his voice niggles at the back of Sherlock's awareness, a sense that perhaps ... _uh oh_. It is rough, bordering on emotional. _Over_ emotional, overwrought. The day John has had - overwhelming. Home yet not home. Better but probably more exhausted than ever. And too many people just ... staring at him. Sherlock watches John breathe, his chest rising, falling. He sees John blink, swallow, and try to put on a calm front, a tough exterior. And almost immediately, Sherlock knows his job.

_Save John Watson..._

John's needs dictate quick intervention, and Sherlock takes action. "Okay," Sherlock says then, suddenly standing up. "Thanks for everything. Time to go, yeah? We'll be in touch." The words 'get out' might as well have been spoken. Gesturing widely at the door, he then picks up Rosie, who cuddles a bit with him again, clutching the decorated bear, quietly, watching as Mycroft raises a brow and obviously he thinks about protesting, but then does in fact look carefully at John before holding the door for Molly and Mrs. Hudson, pulling it closed behind them all.

John feels the first tremble start in his gut, followed by a shudder in his shoulders, and Sherlock eases down on the couch next to him as he takes one deep breath and then another. His shoulders shake a time or two, and his eyes meet Sherlock's. The gaze, the appeal, the soulful eyes - pain and exhaustion and uncertainty - also speak quite plainly. “I can't," he begins, halts, changes to, "I'm not --"

Sherlock tries to smile, but John isn't looking. Awkwardly but best as can be accomplished, Sherlock slides his arms around John, Rosie there by them silently, taking it all in. "It's okay, what a terribly long day, you're all right." Quietly, John's breathing hitches a bit, and he blows a breath out through pursed lips, a calming biofeedback technique that does seem to relax him. Sherlock's hand rubs into his shoulder, behind his head, a careful sideways embrace. Carefully, awkwardly, John nudges his head against the offered hug, nuzzling just a little into Sherlock, grafting his very being into Sherlock's strength. Sherlock's words, comfort, a litany of reassurance. A thumb brushes under John's eye, comes away glistening. "We'll be all right," he breathes. "You'll be okay."

Between them, Rosie wriggles and scoots until she is right in John's line of vision, her little body tucking into John's lap. "Okay daddy," she says, her pudgy hand coming up to rest on his cheek. "Kiss!" she says, pressing close and touching her mouth to his, and then she hands him the stuffed bear, bandaged and all. "Kiss!" she says again, and holds it out to him. It is tension taming and exactly what he needed, and he puffs out a quick breath, smiling a bit. And of course, he obliges her, nuzzles the bear obediently.

"Come on, munchkin," Sherlock begins. "Give daddy another goodnight hug and it's off to bed with you."

"Upstairs, she is?" John asks, cautiously.

"Along with all her things, yes. She's been mostly moved in, as have you. Mycroft had someone take care of it." Sherlock holds Rosie out, who decides to giggle and squiggle and good-naturedly try to get out of Sherlock's arms as John summons enough energy to ruffle at her hair. With a quick glance about, searching for something, Sherlock finally finds then holds out a small screen to John. "Try that out," and he dashes off, cues Rosie through a scrub with a toothbrush, puts her in a fresh nappy, righting her pyjamas, while John finds an on switch. The monitor lights up to a black and white view of what has apparently been transformed into Rosie's bedroom. Her cot, toys, wall decorations are all there. John recognises the cot linens from her bedroom - her former bedroom, he thinks - and the similarities give him a sense of peace. The twin bed has been shoved over into a corner, but the arrangement is sweet and deliberately for Rosie. It is comfortingly familiar. He watches as Sherlock becomes visible, carrying her in, then her bedtime routine of her favourite books, the blanket, her nightlight, her cot, and her stuffed animals. There is no rushing, just calm actions, some patting, a bedtime kiss to her freshly washed face, and then the light dims.

John is still clutching the monitor when Sherlock returns down the stairs. "So that works okay?" he asks John.

"Yes - Mycroft again?"

"He has minimal usefulness, but yes. Night vision and such. I thought it would help, given the stairs, you could at least see her ..." A shrug. "You must be exhausted," Sherlock says, taking the monitor from John and setting it down, handing the now cool mug of tea to take its place.

"You too. Your day has been just as long." He realises the pulse oximeter is still on his finger, and he checks - ninety-two, better than the eighty-six it was just a bit ago. He glances at the concentrator, a smaller unit with wheels and a handle, which is set at four liters. "How does that --"

"We'll talk about it tomorrow, short version, it takes in room air, compresses it for nitrogen removal and pressurised filters. It can deliver up to ten liters per minute. If it's loud, there's plenty of tubing to leave it in the hallway, I just want to see what the alarms sound like," and Sherlock reaches out, presses a button, and a low tone sounds, not too obnoxious. "Oh good," he breathes quietly, "it's better, less shrill, than the video from when I ordered it."

"You didn't buy --"

"Rental. You won't need it long." He pinches off the tubing close to the machine, and the alarm sounds again, a bit higher pitched, definitely loud enough to get his attention anywhere in the flat.

"You don't know that," John takes a small sip of tea, hands it back to Sherlock. "I can't right now." There is a wave of nausea, and he shuts his eyes, can still feel as if he's riding backwards, the room faintly moving, vibrations still feeling very real underneath him. "I can sleep right here, I think."

"No." Sherlock is quiet, calm, resolute. "Bedroom. Loo on the way." 

John's barely has enough energy to work up a protest, but he shakes his head, closes his eyes again.

"John, trust me, I think you'll --" John ignores him, tunes him out for a while, only minimally aware of the sound of moving around the flat, some bags being investigated, set aside, and John finally does open his eyes, takes in what Sherlock is doing. He finally has a moment, and enough interest, to take in a little more of his immediate surroundings. Their suitcases, off to one side. His paperwork, prescriptions, sit on the coffee table. Hospital bags. More changes, and additions - a compact, wheeled scooter. He glances at Sherlock, who is watching him. "Sorry it's not blue," he says. "You'll need it tonight for sure, but if it's too hard, tomorrow we can rent a wheelchair." With a quick shake of his head, John inhales as if he is about to protest. "No arguing." Sherlock hands him one of the pill bottles before he complains. "Antibiotic. And do you need pain medicine? Last dose was at the hospital before we left, so ..."

"Antibiotic, fine. No pain med. And if you hand me that incentive spirometer, I swear on all that's holy, I will ... " and both of them meet eyes, know that John's threats are limited "... destroy it." Though both of them know John really should use it, and that Sherlock certainly could enforce it if he chose, there is a tense moment, and then it dissipates. "Please," John begins, "Not now."

Sherlock smiles faintly, and caves. "Only if you take a few deep breaths now, I will grant you this one-time reprieve. But this is the only time, mind you. Do not test me on it again."

John does, in fact, take a few deep inhales, coughs, groans, and changes his mind on the pain medication, which Sherlock brings him, along with some non-negotiable crackers, and he swallows it all. "You'll be much better off in bed, John. Yeah?" and John gives in on that too, nods, reluctantly, sighing something audible that sounds a lot like the words 'I suppose.' He looks at the scooter with a small amount of trepidation. Sherlock offers to bring him dinner to the bedroom (declined), and then between the two of them, get him upright, his knee firmly on the padded cushion of the scooter supporting his weight. They manage to avoid running over the oxygen tubing, and there is much tripping over each other and working around the wheels as Sherlock helps John slowly down the hall partway, then into the loo, at least to the toilet, where he stays to brush his teeth and run a hot flannel over his face, then on a very tired leg and using Sherlock for support, makes it back to the scooter. Sherlock has already moved the concentrator into the hallway, where the soft whirring shouldn't be too intrusive, and it's out of their way for the moment. He forgets about his cast briefly and it catches on the handlebars - complete with handbrake, which Sherlock applies while John places his knee on it again. Sherlock helps steer and navigates him as John steps carefully as well. 

It seems a long eternity until he is half pushed, half escorted, accompanied from the hall into the bedroom and eased carefully onto the bed. He turns down the offer to get out of his current loose pyjamas as Sherlock tucks every pillow he can find behind John's back and shoulders so that he won't be laying flat.

"You want me to ..."

John is already asleep before Sherlock even finishes the question, and he doesn't even wake up when Sherlock checks the alarm limit and slides the pulse oximeter onto John's finger, and creeps on silent feet from the room. Hesitating slightly in the doorway, Sherlock stops to watch him slumber, chest rising evenly as he lays. Despite the utter exhaustion he feels, being home is good. There is the faintest rustling from the bed as John's exhausted body twitches and he slips into a deeper sleep stage. Sherlock casts a glance at him once more, as if committing him to memory, savouring the image, before turning from the room.

He checks on his other Watson, the one sleeping upstairs, before settling himself onto the couch to catch up on things. He feels an overwhelming tiredness descend on him, and he manages to plug in both of their mobiles and tell himself that he's only going to shut his eyes for a quick moment. A deep breath, an exhale, the tension in his own shoulders eases, all the things he's done and has yet to do, and he thinks he can hear Dr. Snyder reminding him to take care of himself too, to take a break. _Well, all right, just for a minute._

++

Hours later, John startles awake, unsure where he is, what is going on, what time it is, why everything hurts, and his breath catches as he scoots up on an elbow to look around. There is a faint pulsation, of beeping, of a small box alarming on the bed next to him. The oxygen on his face, the foreign intrusion into his nostrils, a slap, a reminder of where he is, and why.

Sherlock's bed. In Sherlock's very dark bedroom.

_Car accident, injuries. And, oh, right, back in London. Baker Street, to be more precise. Rosie is upstairs. Sherlock is ... I have no idea._

John rests back on the angled pillows, picks up the now-alarming medical equipment, sure he can find the off switch. He can push buttons, at any rate, until something happens.

"Did you sleep at all?" comes a soft baritone voice from the doorway. There is a dressing gown, disheveled curls backlit from the hallway, and Sherlock leans a shoulder against the door frame.

"What time is it?" More beeping. Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

"Early," Sherlock says with a wry grin. "Or late, depending on your perspective." Warm fingers take the pulse oximeter from John's hands, set it back down on the bed, and locate the sensor. "How about back on, where it belongs," and he takes John's finger, replaces it but doesn't let go of John's hand right away. A solitary beep, and then the signal averages, a display begins to read out, the alarm resets.

"Rosie?" John whispers.

"Still asleep. You should be, too."

"As should you."

"I've never needed much, John. You should recall that."

"My hospital routine seems to be intact. Middle of the night hourly rounds by the nurses, three am vital signs." His voice is low, rough. “Insomnia, all right on schedule.”

"Did you want me to check your pulse, blood pressure, flip your pillow?"

"You realise nurses do far more than that." For all his fatigue, at least John is sort of amused. "One of those ICU nurses heard you say that, you'd be in serious trouble."

"Don't I know it." A return chuckle, and Sherlock presses the issue, teasing, "I suppose a bed bath reference, also a bit not good then?" His brow raises.

John isn't ready for levity, entirely, not yet. "They were good company, middle of the night." John flashes the display to Sherlock - ninety-two - slips off the pulse ox again, hands it over. "Saved you many a text, when I was awake."

"You know it would have been okay, to text me." Sherlock shuffles a bit, leaning against the bed. "Meanwhile, I was probably awake, too, trying not to disturb Rosie. Who makes an alarming amount of noise while she sleeps."

"Yes, I would imagine, what with the thumb-sucking."

"Don't start on that. But not just that. Breathing, moaning, rolling about." Sherlock shuts off the pulse ox, nudges the oxygen tubing with his toe. There is a drawn out pause, neither of them particularly rushed to fill the moment, and finally Sherlock smiles a little. "So I was thinking, rather than fire off the sixteen-plus questions I have for you, perhaps I thought instead, I would check in. Another way to just ask for an update."

"Check in."

"Yes, because I know the questions get old, tedious, annoying, and ... and you don't need me to interrogate you."

"Explain," John says quietly. "Because I rather think you like to interrogate people."

"All the things I want to ask you: hungry, pain, breathing, repositioning, fever, need the toilet, or to move, is your foot okay, need something to drink, too warm, too cold. Help with something." He stops, and his tone changes, more snarky. "And have you used your incentive spirometer lately?" 

"It's out in the other room."

"You know what I mean. The questions get annoying. It just makes more sense to check in, and it is an invitation for you to tell me."

"Without you having to ask."

"It does mean you need to be honest."

"That makes sense, I suppose," John ponders the points he's made, tries to shift, get comfortable, realises this is awkward for them both, Sherlock's displacement, the fact that it is still o'dark thirty.

"Well?" Sherlock smirks a bit, visible in the low light. "Have you already blocked out what a check-in means?"

John signs, exhausted still, understanding Sherlock wants an update. "Should probably use the loo, get this boot off. Not necessary to sleep in it, they said. Water I suppose," and he glances to the nightstand, where there is already a bottle of water waiting. "Oh. Pain's okay right now."

After lighting a small lamp in the room, Sherlock eases the knee scooter close, but John makes no effort to move yet. "Anything else?" John looks back unsure of what Sherlock is asking. "Hungry at all?"

"Not especially." It takes some doing, but John finally sits up, gets dizzy, and nearly changes his mind about wanting to leave the bed. He leans hard on Sherlock, though, and they manage to get John across the hall while Sherlock holds the oxygen cannula out of the way. "This is bloody awful. Annoying," he says eventually, leaning hard on the sink, getting stuck on the pyjama drawstring, and then nearly bobbling as the boot catches on his other leg, and he moans a little as he braces himself using muscles attached to painful ribs. "Next time, forget it, I'll just dehydrate, go into renal failure, and stay put."

"Oh, no you don't, and stop your whinging. It'll get easier."

Standing finally, unmoving for the moment, John stares at Sherlock, one hand clutching at his now-untied pyjamas. "I can manage from here."

"Last night I stood by just in case."

"Last night I was probably delirious."

Sherlock doesn't seem too sure. "I'll be right --"

 _"Out_ ," John says with more bravado than he's feeling.

Sherlock re-enters the bathroom when he hears John at the sink, and their eyes meet in the mirror. "I hope you feel better than you look," Sherlock mutters with a scowl at John's haggard appearance, at the stubble and the dark circles under tired eyes and mussed hair.

"You're not looking so hot yourself," John retorts, knowing it is well, not exactly the truth. But Sherlock's eyes are fatigued too, and his cheeks a bit sunken, more than usual.

Another joint effort with the scooter, and John almost groans as his foot finds purchase and he wobbles a bit as they shift positions. The bed is inviting, and John perches on it while undoing the straps on the boot, then manages with Sherlock’s dexterous assistance to wriggle it off though it pains as it comes over the swollen joint. Despite his threat to dehydrate, John pulls at the water bottle until it is almost empty afterward.

"Say, you know," John begins, fussing at the duvet and angling the pillows behind him as he settles, "You're welcome of course, here. We're both awake." Their eyes meet, and John can make out the awkwardness on Sherlock's face, so he presses through his own nervousness, "It's your bloody ... room, for gods sake. Might as well." A small smirk crosses Sherlock's face as they both acknowledge John's deliberate avoidance of the word bed.

"I'll grab the baby monitor, and," his words trail off, a clearing of his throat, "yeah, all right." On quiet feet again, Sherlock disappears, comes back with the monitor and a chuckle. "She's fine, but that's an odd position to sleep in."

John takes the monitor, finds Rosie sleeping on her side, back arched, legs splayed. They watch for a moment together, and Sherlock hangs up his dressing gown across the room. "Oh god," John says eventually, a sad smile about him, "it feels ...  I can't believe I'm here. Home." His inflection on that last word, tentative, unsure, but honest.

The monitor is quiet as Sherlock snicks off the lamp, pads around to the other side to stretch out, facing John.

"This is difficult, though. Harder than I expected." John's confession, barely a whisper. "Everything." His voice is tired, honest, broken. “Surreal.”

"You've been home for six, seven hours, I daresay you cannot make that statement yet." Sherlock snorts a bit. "Yes, challenging. But would you rather be in Scotland, back in the hospital? Or in a rehab like they threatened?"

"Rehab would have been easier for you."

"I'm not even going to respond to that ridiculous statement."

"It is certainly obvious, though, I could never have gone ... to the other flat. Not by myself."

“That’s true.”

”So thanks for ... I’m lucky you...” Sherlock doesn’t say anything but he nods, and there is a fond, crooked smile that the hallway light catches just so, his profile unmistakable. The dark room is finally relaxing, and they do seem to settle, the quietness more comfortable than stilted. They are both quite aware of the other, the breathing pattern, the warmth and presence of another body, the way the bed moves and dips with another person's weight on it, and John can feel the exhaustion drawing him down again.

"Don't fight to stay awake, not on my account," Sherlock says quietly, seeing it and sensing it.

"I won't. You neither." More blinking, the video monitor silent, Rosie in some sort of normal, quiet sleeping stage. "Can I ...?" John begins. "Can we," he amends, and Sherlock's smile is both visible and palpable as he nods and scoots a little nearer, his hand spanning the short distance between them, reaching to take John's gently, warmly, holding it as their fingers interlock, dance apart, try again, looking for a comfortable grip and clasp that is natural and soothing. Their hands settle together, a statement, a resolution.

Both fall asleep in just that way, holding hands, warm skin touching, the faint brush of familiar hand on familiar hand. They breathe easily, and sleep.

++

John is sitting at the kitchen table, Rosie in her high chair pushing some dry cereal into a line. There is the morning mail, placemats, a pile of paperwork, toast. That is the normal part. The aberrancy is the rest of it - medical equipment, two prescription bottles, a scooter, a few remaining steri-strips over John's eyebrow, some tape residue on his arm from lab work, heart monitor electrodes, and IV sites. Colourful, mostly old bruising. One of them is wearing oxygen tubing, a walking boot, and a patient wristband that just hasn’t been cut off yet. The kettle bubbles, boils, and Sherlock places it in front of John, where two empty mugs and their favourite boxed tea waits for him. A glare goes from one to the other, which Sherlock very pointedly ignores. Sighing, John pours, sets, steeps, and then shakes his head.

"As if there's anything magical about this."

"It doesn't taste the same, I can't explain why." Sherlock snickers as he slides into the seat opposite, hands Rosie another triangle of toast. "While we're waiting," he begins, and slides John's mobile to him along with a number, "here's the number for home physiotherapy. I could call if you prefer, but --"

John picks up the mobile, effectively answering the statement. It takes only a bit of doing, but in short order there is a therapy appointment. A cancellation has left an opening for later that day, along with a home visit from a nurse tomorrow.

"Can you help me to the couch?"

"Already?" Sherlock asks, curious.

"Yes, well. Ringing someone on the phone and sitting up has apparently exhausted me. That and making your bloody tea."

"You drank some too," Sherlock says with a wry smirk, but he readies to help John trade the kitchen chair for the couch. John's eyes are already closed when he feels his arm being raised and opens his eyes to make sure he's not in danger from whatever Sherlock's up to now.

"Thought I'd get rid of this, finally." In one hand, Sherlock is holding a pair of scissors, and his other hand is suspending John's while a finger has slid under the plastic name band. "You are planning on staying?"

The question is a little poignant, a little more tender than either of them probably intended or suspected, and John can feel his face soften at Sherlock's realisation, the hopefulness, the depth of the question. "I am, yes." John's voice as he speaks is also soft and certain even despite the rough fatigue. "Thanks."

John's eyes close, though he doesn't fall immediately to sleep, listening to Sherlock and Rosie. Sherlock explains something to Rosie about the different components of the typical cup of tea, and then he hears them discussing Rosie's injured bear. Moments later he has to open an eye to check what they are doing to it, and finds that Sherlock has taken John's wristband and fashioned a collar for the bear out of it. Rosie is delighted, and brings it over to show John, then tucks it under the blanket with John, gives them both sloppy kisses.

Most of the rest of the day is spent napping on the couch, every so often being decorated by Rosie with a toy, book, or animal, and finally, a frustrating attempt at making tea from the couch. Sherlock is not amused when John decides, snarkily, that the secret to his tea is simply the fact that he sticks his finger into the cup, dips twice and sworls it, and flicks the remaining dot of tea from his index finger in Sherlock's direction.

"Git." But he is grinning, and wonders perhaps if that - John's skin cells - could possibly be the secret. More research is definitely required.

++

"Checking in," Sherlock asks later, quietly, as they've just managed to eat what might be their first normal supper meal, something Mrs. Hudson brought up. The physical therapy visit had been more talking and paperwork, an assessment of living space and goals for accommodations, a review of John's injuries than actual exercising, stretching, or gait training. They did, however, help with the scooter, bless its use and make some adjustments to the various heights of the handlebars and the knee pad, which helped, and John does feel better and more confident about using it. Another therapy visit is scheduled for the end of the week.

The check-in phrase and process is still awkward, but each time Sherlock looks at John, wonders, he imagines asking him the annoying plethora of questions:  are you okay, what do you want, are you having pain, is your leg okay, are you short of breath, are you hungry/hot/cold/tired/in pain? Checking in, once they got the hang of it, would be much more practical.

John obviously, the expression somewhat calculating, has something on his mind. "Mostly all right. Think Mrs. Hudson can mind Rosie for a few minutes?" and Sherlock watches him, waiting for explanation. "What I want most, right now, kind of ridiculous, and I don't know ... " Colour suffuses both his face and his ears. "I ... never mind, it's ... I can't ..."

"Out with it."

"Oh, god," he breathes nervously, "I'd kill for ... _just a shower_. Well, a bath, I suppose, actually." Insecure eyes rise, meet Sherlock's, questioning and wondering and obviously uncomfortable with asking.

"I'm sorry, I guess I should have thought of that." Sherlock concentrates and then nods almost right away. "But, yes." The immediate response is followed by a mental barrage of questions on making it work. "Yes. Rosie, I'm sure, Mrs. Hudson can --"

"If it's too much hassle, we can wait."

"No." Vehement, passionate, immediate. "If it's something you want that badly, we'll get it sorted."

++

Mrs. Hudson, of course, is more than willing to entertain Rosie, so Sherlock asks for an hour and assures Mrs. Hudson that he will help John and then come for Rosie when they're through, long before it's time to get her into bed. He finds that there is a whole procedure with a plastic bag and silk tape procured from John's med kit which is far more challenging than it should have been. More than once John finds himself ready to bail on the entire thing simply due to the hassle and aggravation of even getting ready.

"No, seriously, I just need a steadying hand while I get into the tub and then I'll be fine. I just want a soak, and to have a normal wash."

"How are you planning on --"

"I still have one good hand, yeah? A dominant one at that." Sherlock sets out a few thick towels, tests the water (again), and looks skeptically at John's somewhat impaired extremities. "Help me in, and leave the room. I'll ask for help if I need it." When Sherlock scowls darkly, John reneges just enough to amend, "And to get out, I suppose."

"I swear I'll never speak to you again if you manage to drown yourself in the bath." Crossing his arms and planting his feet, Sherlock watches John and thinks this is a terrible idea.

John shoots him a glance. "Do you even listen to yourself?" 

Half a smirk on Sherlock's face. "I try not to." Inside the bathroom, Sherlock gestures at the tub. "Enough water?" John has already pulled off his tee shirt and is checking the tape around his cast again for adherence, but nods at the question without looking, so Sherlock turns off the taps. "I really think you should --"

"Shush." John pulls a little at the dressing that still covers the chest tube site, but the swollen fingers on his hand are ungainly and the angle makes it even harder, so Sherlock assists with that, bins the old gauze. The site is angry, deep red but healing and there is very little drainage. Pivoting slightly on his foot, John settles on the edge of the tub and removes the velcro straps, loosens the boot, and slides it off where it lands on the floor with a loud thump.

"This seemed like a great idea before," John says as he gives the oxygen tubing a tug so he's got enough slack, and his breathing is heavy.

Sherlock has had enough, and decides to just press ahead, taking charge. "Stand up so we can remove these," he pinches the fabric of the pyjama pants. "It will be more efficient, easier on you, and quicker for me to help." Sherlock gets a little more passionate at John's huff of air. "So listen to me, do what I tell you, and no more trying to be so bloody independent."

John is silent but seething, frustrated, and motionless.

 _"John."_ Sherlock's tone and manner dictate that much more resistance, stubbornness, isn't going to be tolerated.

The fact that he does then lift up is answer enough, and finally starkers, with Sherlock helping, he steps, slides, and lowers his aching body into the waiting water. Sherlock gives John no time for embarrassment or even modesty, simply begins with a hot flannel for his face, holding it out to John while removing the oxygen tubing and then raising an annoyed eyebrow until John scrubs, and dries with the proffered corner of a towel and then replaces it. Sherlock then takes over, wordless, using his own posh body wash. Shoulders and arms, head to toe, then, chest and sides, limbs. He scrubs his back, then armpits, then rinses only to hand John the soapy flannel again. "I presume you'd like to take care of the rest?" John takes the cloth and Sherlock moves away to scoop up John's discarded clothing and leaves the bathroom. He returns with clean clothes - pyjamas again - and is holding a large plastic cup.

"For your hair," he explains. "Now, which shampoo?" Sherlock is still in detached, go-mode, but his smile is genuine as John lets the cloth drop into his lap and leans forward, tipping his head up in invitation. "You want mine or yours?"

John glances over to check, and sure enough, his shampoo from his former flat sits in the corner where it always used to be. "Mine." He doesn't have time to think about the ... rightness of that, because Sherlock reaches out an index finger, presses John's jaw until he tips his head back again.

A few cups to douse, lather, rinse, and Sherlock rocks back on his heels. "If you'd still like to soak, just let me drain out the water, give you clean and fresh. Rather unappealing, sitting in used bathwater."

The earlier soak he'd been looking forward to is now almost ridiculous, ludicrous, given his state of exhaustion, and he can feel the trembling in his muscles along with a marked soreness. Pain, actually. "No, I'm done. Wiped out."

Sherlock starts the tub emptying, and eyes John as he leans his head back against the tiled wall. "Ready?" He takes John's plastic-wrapped arm. "Just to the edge of the tub then. Careful on that," he nods at John's still-swollen, unprotected ankle.

John slides his bum up to sit on the edge of the tub, and Sherlock drapes him almost fully in a bath towel, tucks it around his shoulders. Another is wrapped about his hair, and John finds himself leaning back against Sherlock's body as he is dried off best as can be done while sitting there, the tub finally empty and the drain gurgling itself silent. For a few long minutes, he leans in, Sherlock's hands rubbing lightly over the towel, drying, holding, reassuring, and most of all warm. Through the towel, John can feel the radiant heat coming through Sherlock's clothing, and it is comforting and strong. A few moments pass by, John leaning against Sherlock, whose arms envelope him, secure, holding. The exhales that both of them breathe out are comforting, familiar, and _thank you_. With a slight press, Sherlock eases his lips against John's temple, and John ends up turning his head so that more skin connects. John arches his back a little, the angle between Sherlock's lips and John's jaw tightens until John remembers that he is wearing only a towel and sits up again, disconnecting only slightly as, obviously fatigued, his head rests back against Sherlock. A tee shirt is produced, but John gestures to the chest tube site. "Need a bandage first."

Sherlock secures gauze and tape from the bag one of the nurses had sent along with them, those miscellaneous supplies that would have been binned anyway, and places a small, clean dressing over. "Looks a little puffy," he frowns at it before affixing the tape.

"Heat from the bath probably." Ultimately, John ends up back on the scooter, pyjama-clad, and Sherlock pauses long enough to gesture toward the sitting room or the bedroom, offering either direction, and John whispers, "Bed," and they both realise how much the bath had cost when John requires much more assistance then he's previously needed. Sherlock's support - and almost lifting - and John's remarkably weak legs surprise them both.

"I'm ... done," John says with a regrettable shrug. "Knackered."

"Worth it?" Sherlock isn't sure.

"I think so."

"I should go rescue Mrs. Hudson." 

"Mmmm." John's eyes are closed, and Sherlock watches his respiratory pattern - still rapid. 

He slides the pulse oximeter on John's finger, then, watches it hover in the low nineties. "Maybe I'll bring Rosie in here tonight, we can try reading and maybe watch a short video in here before she goes to bed?"

Sherlock watches John's eyes soften, his expression tender, and he murmurs, "Thank you. That'd be," he pauses long enough to frown, his hand sliding up to adjust the oxygen prongs in his nose, then move somewhat protectively over his chest, over some sensation of pain inside. "That'd be nice." His words are slurred.

"I'm putting the boot back on you, though, loosely, so she doesn't hurt you while she's in here."

John almost sleeps through it, but rallies enough to read Rosie a story before falling asleep to the irritating little sing-songy voice of her favourite cartoon characters on a video. A little later, he barely notices when Sherlock carries her out to tuck her into bed.

++

John awakens hours later, alone and drenched in sweat. Mouth dry and heart pounding, he looks around a bit, his mind slow and fuzzy. He reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand, but misses, knocking a few things off that thwack onto the floor including the water bottle and a box of tissues. Slowly, he eases back down onto the pillow, trying to take stock of things, figure out exactly what isn't right. Because something is definitely amiss. Part of him wants to call out for Sherlock but in his altered thinking he does not want to wake Rosie or disturb anyone, and of course he tells himself that Sherlock needs his rest too. Mockingly, the water bottle has rolled away slightly, and he starts to lean over to try to get it, finds it definitely out of reach and his pounding head starts to absolutely throb at the change of position. He brushes his sweaty hair off his forehead and as he does so, he is oddly aware that his exhaled breath is hot, unusually so. The deep breath he takes then as he tests it again, his breath against his wrist, reminds him of his sore ribs, the difficulty taking a full breath. He flings back the duvet and is immediately too chilly. He pulls the covers back up, feeling the shivers beginning.

_Not good, Watson._

Even the pulse ox is sweaty, stuck on his finger. He slides it off, figuring that Sherlock will hear it, then come to investigate, and help him out. Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

The alarm, as John intends, does eventually summon Sherlock to the bedroom. Slowly, when he hears him at the doorway, John's eyes open as does his mouth, but no words come out.

Sherlock perceives immediately that John is not well. "John!" 

"Mmm." He clears his throat to try again. Gently a cool hand that belongs to a worried face, is pressed to his forehead, though John doesn't see Sherlock's expression through his closed eyelids. He misses the frown, the _fear._

"You're burning up." Sherlock's brain engages, an absolute dervish of words and thoughts - _I'll call 999, summon Mrs. Hudson for Rosie, clearly John is in no shape to be here, what was I thinking bringing him here anyway? How can a person actually be flushed and pale at the same time?_ He could still quite clearly envision so many terrible associations with John being ill, the breathing tube, the respiratory distress, the IV medications and ...

John's words interrupt Sherlock's mild panic, and he says quietly, "Fever's back." There is a good bit of relief that Sherlock feels that John is at least talking, able to say something coherent.

"I can see that." _The antibiotic isn't working, or he's picked up something else, something rare and deadly and I'm going to lose him ..._ "I think we might call --"

"I'm okay." He tries to rise on an elbow again, and finds that effort is too much. There is a groan, quiet and concerning. "Maybe not." His voice is weak and thick, and even his eyes feel tired and blurry, but he notices that Sherlock turns on the light in the room. "Water maybe?" In slow motion, he turns his head to see where the bottle of water has actually ended up.

Sherlock ties his dressing gown, feeling his own heart pounding. "Temperature first, see how high the fever is. Then water. And ibuprofen perhaps this time rather than the paracetamol." He looks closer, sees the perspiration on John's face, the sheets sticking to John, the sweat. "And the sheets."

John's mind remains a bit muddled as Sherlock disappears, returns, and the waves of the room ripple and hum. Thermometer beeping from under his tightly closed mouth (held that way with long fingers when he doesn't follow directions well), and John does not clearly hear the whispered result of "thirty nine," but shortly there are two tablets, the hard plastic top of a water bottle against his lips. And then he is moved, assisted to a chair dragged close. It is a sloppy, one-legged pivot, the duvet wrapped about him, a cocoon as Sherlock strips the sweat-soaked sheets off the bed. There are dry pyjamas exchanged, shirt first, pants second, and John is tucked back into bed that is dry, clean, and _cold_.

He curls up, best he can given how sore and weak he is, and Sherlock brings the duvet up under his chin, presses it close to his body to help keep him insulated.

The shivering has stopped but he still has a deep chill, and says so through chattering teeth, so Sherlock brings back the video monitor and his mobile, turns off the light, and climbs into bed behind John. There is fussing and movement and warm-socked feet pressing on John's cold ones, over the cool skin of his arms, and finally the warmth from Sherlock's body seems to seep into John's, makes a difference.

"Once you warm up a little, you should have more water, stay hydrated." John blinks, knows Sherlock is right and that this task is important, so he leans forward enough that Sherlock stretches and hands John the water bottle. "And if you're still running a fever in a couple of hours, I'm calling the nurse who's scheduled, ask her to come earlier today." _Or,_   _a_ _mbulance, perhaps,_ he thinks.

John drinks, nods, collapses back onto the pillow.

Sherlock, however, lays down, unmoving next to John, his eyes wide, heart pounding. The fear that grips him is profound, and he watches John sleep.

He's not the only one who feels chilled to the bone. For Sherlock, it is the deep chill of dread, that sense of impending doom, of foreboding. 

He watches John breathe, thinking that over the past few weeks, he has spent a lot of time, an exorbitant amount of time, doing this very activity.

Chest rise, chest fall. In a couple different hospital rooms, attached to a different oxygen modality, the ventilator, in the beginning, an assortment of tubes and wires and lines. The restraints and agitation. He recalls too much, all of it a vivid nightmare that he doesn't particularly care to repeat.

Chest rise, chest fall. In the chair, John holding Rosie. Holding him. The hitch of his chest movements when their lips had come together, when they kissed. Finally.

Chest rise, chest fall. With perceptive eyes, Sherlock can tell when John's breathing relaxes, settles, ventilating differently. Soundless, he holds out a finger under John's nose, feels the temperature of his exhaled air. It is faintly cooler, the medication helping, and overall John is less stressed, less forced. Sherlock tucks in on his side then, letting his fingers rest feather-light over John's chest, feeling the ebb and flow of John's more normal respiratory pattern, of muscles and ribs, of flesh and blood and life.

Chest rise, chest fall. He tugs at the pillow until it supports his head, his nose at John's shoulder, laying as close as he dares, holding himself tightly still after the movement to see if John will awaken, and when he does not, Sherlock takes in all of it, the stability for the moment anyway. He is near if John needs anything, or worsens, and finally, cautiously, he allows his own eyes to close.

Chest rise, chest fall. John's, Sherlock's, synchronous. Right before Sherlock starts to doze off, he feels John wriggle, press against him where they are almost touching, the faintest snuggling even in his sleep as the gap between them closes.

Chest rise, chest fall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Pesky Watson! This was supposed to end with a different kind of bed-cuddles and feeling better and perhaps even a declaration from one to the other and back again. And other **ahem** satisfying things. And then he snickered into his pillow and spiked a temp and Sherlock got worried and I kept trying to delete the whole scene without success.
> 
> And then concerned Sherlock was just too good not to poke at a little bit.
> 
> ++
> 
> As always, apologies for the little things that slip by me. Please let me know if there's something that needs to be tightened up or edited. I appreciate the way you have all hung in there! Kudos to all of you.


	15. Breath of Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Christmas and RL and the Advent fic squirrel I chased - but this is now complete.
> 
> (Thank you for your patience!)
> 
> The time since the last chapter necessitates a review (for all of us, haha).
> 
> John and Rosie traveled to Scotland, where John was critically injured in a car accident (Rosie was safely at a relative's home, unharmed). The rental company notified Sherlock of the accident, who with Mycroft's assistance tracked John to the hospital and spent a grueling week and a half watching sedated-unresponsive-often agitated John Watson wean from the ventilator and recover enough to be discharged via ambulance back to London. 
> 
> Oh, and Sherlock canceled the lease on John's flat and rather forced his hand into moving back to Baker Street, so John has been recovering there from his pneumonia and other injuries.
> 
> When we left them in the last chapter, John was actually starting to get a little spicy _[starting,_ well, perhaps not]. A health visitor will be out to check on him, and at the end of the last chapter, he had spiked a rather high fever. So far, Rosie is doing well in the upstairs bedroom, while John is unable to regularly manage the stairs so is sleeping in the downstairs one. There's been a little camaraderie and some hand-holding, but not much more than that. Yet.
> 
> Each chapter has had a little italicised blurb about Kintsugi, which revers to the process where an object is made, broken, and repaired by skilled hands to create something new and beautiful. Usually it is done with gold seams. This segment is at the end of this chapter and is non-linear in the telling.

John sits on the couch, a nurse - Melanie - holding her stethoscope against his back. "Again," she cues. "Slowly." She listens intently, occasionally requesting another breath, eventually, "Breathe normally," and once she's finished, listening anteriorly and posteriorly, the stethoscope goes back into her bag.

"Sound okay?" John asks, a frown, a gesture of mild impatience.

"You certainly sound like there's still a touch of right base pneumonia. Few crackles, maybe a third. Aeration gets a bit better after you cough. It's resolving."

From the table next to them, she takes John's incentive spirometer. "Two thousand mills, probably about right." With a winning smile, she offers it. "Show me."

"Show off, you mean," Sherlock mutters from where he is sitting, watching.

The grin is mischievous. "Whatever it takes."

With all the talking, the assessment, the home visit, John isn't quite able to reach the goal line that is set on the device, so as he coughs, he tries to discreetly lower the indicator, sliding it down. Another breath makes the bellows rise to the marker.

"There," he says, setting it down and angling the device so the numbers are not facing either of them.

"We both saw that," Melanie remarks. “By the way.”

"Embarrassing," Sherlock adds, "A terribly obvious attempt."

She holds out her own pulse oximeter from her bag, and they watch the numbers hover and settle in the ninety-four range. With confident fingers, she reaches out and removes the oxygen cannula from John's face, then kind of ignores it while reaching for a small packet of skin protectant. "Lean forward," she requests, and she inspects then applies it to the areas over John's ears that have indeed been getting sore. "Hopefully you won't need this too much longer, but you can put this on every day, adds a bit of a barrier, saves your skin from getting too sore, or any redder." She sets aside several packets of the product, makes a few more notes on her assessment form, unrushed and confident.

Melanie smiles when she notices both John and Sherlock watching the pulse oximeter, and flips it over to hide the display. A twinkling stare at both of them - a challenge is issued. _Go ahead, I dare you._

"Why would you do that?" Sherlock asks with a slight edge to his voice. When she doesn't answer as timely as he apparently wants, he scowls a little and adds, "Isn't that the entire point of a monitor, to ...  _monitor_ something?"

"How are you feeling?" she asks John instead of answering. A faint purse of her lips - amusement, perhaps - shows up then.

"Okay," he considers, his breathing very intentional and focused. There is a small frown of introspection, of self-awareness.

"Obviously no one wants your numbers to get very low, but while you're weaning, see if you can use how you're feeling as a guide rather than staring at that thing. If you're noticing air hunger, try a few deep breaths first, maybe move around. See if changing position, you know, good lung down makes a difference. Go by how you're feeling first." They both nod, though Sherlock would rather have John monitored. Concrete data over subjective impressions any day of the week. "So, how high was your fever last night?" She makes a few notes as they talk further as to time, treatment, any other symptoms or signs of new infection. She inspects and then cleans the chest tube site, finds it scabbed and not draining, so they leave it open to air. Her brow raises then and she taps the biro on her paper. "What's your best guess at your pulse ox right now?"

A faintly puzzled moue of John's mouth, a furrowing of his brow, and he shrugs then guesses. "Ninety-three. No idea, I feel okay, but not ... Ninety-two?"

At Melanie's questioning look in his direction, Sherlock shakes his head with a smile. "Eighty-nine."

Grinning, the nurse stares back at Sherlock with a wry smile and a twinkle in her eye. She considers John again, just watching at first and then taking his hand to press firmly over one of his fingers, watching the blanching, colour, and capillary refill as she does it again. "I'd be inclined to agree more with _you,"_ and she tilts her head at Sherlock's prediction. Three pairs of eyes seek and find the display as Melanie turns it back over. Eighty-nine. Ninety. Eighty-nine. A two-step dance.

John takes a slow deep breath, feels the sensation of fullness in his lungs, the inflammation still there as his ribs have been healing, the fluid probably still getting reabsorbed. "How could you tell?"

"Colour," they both say.

He tries to follow directions, leans to the left, but the awkwardness and discomfort soon have him more pensive and restless, and he adjusts again.

"Try one liter," Melanie offers, and Sherlock rises to make the adjustment on the condenser as John replaces the tubing. "Probably enough while you're awake." Her bag comes out again then, and she withdraws some supplies. "Bit of lab work, then, I think. Some standing orders, I can add more if we think it's warranted. Complete blood count for starters. Maybe a chemistry panel for giggles. Lactic acid given the fever last night, though it's likely resolved, normalised. Albumin, see how your nutrition status is." Checking her paperwork, she pulls out three tubes. She smiles pleasantly as she puts on a pair of nitrile gloves and looks at John. "You have a vein preference?"

"Pick one," John shoves up his sleeves and extends his arms, flashing both antecubital sites for her perusal. He pumps a fist with his good hand, tightens his fingers beyond the cast of the other.

She considers carefully, disregards the arm that'd had the PICC, brushing a finger over the deep scab still there on the inside of his bicep, on the other arm pressing lightly at a few spots, evaluating. Then without much fuss she prepares his skin, snaps on a tourniquet, then slides a butterfly into one of the more bouncy veins, draws off three tubes. Rosie has been keeping a peripheral eye on what they were doing and doesn't mind the needle, but at the sight of the blood slowly filling tubes, she lets out a small wail of protest and is absolutely ready to get worse. Sherlock scoops her up, telling her that daddy is fine, not to be afraid, that everything is good as John holds a square gauze over the small puncture. She settles as the nurse labels and bags the specimen, activates the ice pack in the phlebotomy kit. "Takes a day or so for the results. Someone will call you tomorrow."

The remainder of the visit runs through a variety of other assessments and interventions. Everything is discussed from medication, managing fever should it return, pain management, eating, bathing, bowel and bladder, to mental health and coping skills. She takes a few minutes to talk about mobility and what their plans are to get John out of the flat eventually. The physical therapist, they tell her, is not due back until tomorrow, and Melanie is already shaking her head. "Out of the flat at least once a day. Breathe some fresh air."

Sherlock and John exchange helpless looks, knowing that John has almost no energy for any of that, and John finally leans back into the couch, closes his eyes, muttering, "There's no way."

"Open a window?" Sherlock suggests, and Melanie gives him a gesture that seems to ask, _Seriously?_

She laughs at his surrendering and his demeanor, and when Sherlock bristles, she makes a pointed gesture with her hands at him. Addressing John, she says with an almost playful edge to her words, "Good thing you didn't give up on your patients, stop their surgery when you got tired, abandon the soldiers you cared for in the Army, yeah? Or on yourself when things got hard in the hospital, trying to get off the ventilator. Just because things are hard doesn't mean you don't do them." He is still prostrate, but watching her, and she pokes him in the chest lightly with a finger. "You are not trapped here."

Sherlock is almost ... _reeling_ over her statement. "You don't realise how hard ..."

"Stop. I get it, big accident, healing traumatic injuries, it's going to take time. Major inconvenience, stairs, oxygen tank, whatever. But isn't getting on with life, getting back to," and Melanie practically sizzles with the desire to get her point across to them, "normalcy or some version of it, making progress?" She concedes a little, pats John lightly across the back of his hand, and her tone is kind: "At least think about it."

John fusses a moment with the cannula, again fairly focused on how he is feeling. "Okay. I'm just glad to be home."

"Okay, good, of course, that's great. But don't settle there. Go out for dinner, do some shopping. Take your daughter out. In the upcoming days even, coming soon, out to doctors visits, yeah?" Her voice is low, quiet, and very intense. She lets the concepts sink in. "You'll have plans to return to work at some point, to the surgery?" John nods slowly, though it seems an impossibility to give more than a passing consideration for the future, and she smiles when he grudgingly shrugs but with a little more belief. "So the first day, you get down the steps and come back up. Or upstairs to tuck the little one into bed. The next day, maybe you have tea with that nice lady downstairs, the day after that you sit on a bench right out there for a few minutes. The day after, more." John is somewhat nonresponsive, so she turns on Sherlock. "You have a portable oxygen tank," and she jerks her thumb at where it sits near them, "what on earth for? _Decoration_?" He stares back, so she continues, "Of course not, so use it!"

Sherlock puts on a non-committal face and responds, "Perhaps."

With a slightly exasperated face, she tells him, "This is going to be up to you. Leave it to him," and she quirks her head at John, "he's going to prefer chilling right where he is. Recovery’ll take longer." Another chuckle. "Sweeten the excursion with a reward. You're a smart man,” she eyes Sherlock. “You both are, so figure something out."

A few more questions, suggestions, and she packs up her go-bag and they schedule her next visit for the following week, which will likely be the final one if things are progressing. A business card ends up clipped to John's folder with her mobile number, and she waves at them all, hands Rosie a sticker, and then leaves. The room is quiet enough to hear her stop to chat briefly with Mrs. Hudson, and there is a called out goodbye up the stairway as she leaves the building.

They intervene just in time before Rosie applies the sticker to Sherlock's violin.

++

Settling in, those first days, is not without major inconvenience and annoyance and frustration.

John full stop refuses to attempt the stairs until the physical therapist has been there to weigh in on it, and Sherlock mostly agrees. It is exhausting enough just to watch, and sometimes help, John get dressed, washed, and manoeuver around the flat. The physical therapist who visits agrees with Melanie in theory but advises to take it a little slower. It is quite helpful, however, when he reminds John that non-weight-bearing does not mean that he can't set his foot down as he moves about, lightly, on whatever surface. The visit with an orthopedist is scheduled for follow up evaluation of the foot and wrist, along with a few more physical therapy sessions mostly just to assure John is making progress and getting stronger.

Rosie settles in too, perhaps quicker than John, though Sherlock sets up an excursion, an outing for her of some sort almost every day, rotating through Molly, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson. The daycare she attended when they lived at John's old flat is too far to be remotely convenient, and they have researched a closer one but John hasn't settled on anything yet. Despite the changes to her environment, she sleeps fairly well, naps almost daily, and is most content sitting or snuggling with either of them, being read to, playing, and being played with. Sherlock in particular finds that she can be inquisitive, curious, and surprisingly destructive if unattended. He finds this out - fortunately - when she finds and colours and then dismembers a journal he'd been reading.

Carrying anything, John finds, is almost impossible. Sherlock makes a few phone calls, and a basket is couriered to their flat, added to his scooter handle-bars, and they locate an insulated hot cup with a lid so John can fix his own tea and bring it to the sitting room. The first time he does this it takes almost a half hour, he leans back and smiles at Sherlock, only to find that once he's seated, Sherlock then asks him for a cup of his own, "Because no one can make tea like you, John."

"Get your own damn tea for a change." He seems somewhat shocked at the audacity of the request. "Rosie's out and I just want to ... No," he says again.

"Please?"

"How about sod off, then."

After a few moments, John tries to tune Sherlock out, wriggling his fingers, fussing at the cast, adjusting the boot, and picking up a novel Sherlock had obtained. "You know, if our roles were reversed," Sherlock says and there is a definite calculating tone about him, "I would do almost anything you asked of me. That's what friends do, is it not?"

"Almost anything?" John raises his head, stares hard at Sherlock, and when their eyes connect, there is a dare. A challenge. A feisty gauntlet being smartly tossed to the floor.

"Yes."

"Would you come over here and rub my foot?" A small grin flickers about John's mouth as he asks the question with intensity. The smile is fleeting but they are clearly dealing in subtext now.

"Are you asking me, or just giving an example of something you could request?"

"Are you refusing, or just being difficult?" John parries back at him, trying to feign boredom, but his mind is whirling. "I thought you said almost anything." Still Sherlock sits, waiting, watching. "What about if I asked you for something more ... personal?" There is a tingling awareness of some chemistry, magnetism - attraction - and eyes are bright as they interact.

"Such as?" Sherlock says in almost a whisper, but he _knows_. He can tell by the way John is holding his head, the way his tongue darts out briefly to lick at his lips. At the pupillary dilation, the focus and intensity of John's expression, the way his eyes watch Sherlock's mouth. "I'm waiting for an answer." A squint to his eyes adds to the electricity and energy between them.

"I'm waiting too," John says, low and stubborn, then he lets the smile come, a much more relaxed expression than earlier. "And of the two of us, you're more mobile." His voice is quiet but he doesn't say anything else, just lets the moment between them tingle until finally Sherlock does rise to his feet, slowly, carefully. A few steps closer and he bends down, reaching with a hand toward John's chin, to hold it steady as he presses warm lips against John's, once, twice, the third time they connect but don't move away. Angling his head, he breathes John's scent in, his hand slipping from jaw to behind his head as he takes a knee next to him on the couch, their bodies brushing awkwardly, legs touching as Sherlock slides to a sitting position. The kiss deepens, warm, lips parting as tongues come into action. John slides his own hand behind Sherlock's back, holding snug, appreciating ribs and muscles, posture adjustments and breathing and the firm body presence through his shirt.

"Oh god," someone whispers, and it is followed by a few bolder, stronger touches, an arching, pressing closer. "Finally," John hears and is fairly certain he has spoken.

"Rosie'll be back soon," Sherlock whispers, "but," and he leaves the rest of the sentence dangling in the wind. He kisses John, strong, his mouth adding suction around John's lips, tongue, darting here and there as if he needs to sample each piece of him.

It is delightful. Throbbing and delightful.

John twists his head minutely, annoyed at the presence of the oxygen cannula as it digs into his upper lip, and in doing so, for some reason, he feels his breath catch and he draws back immediately, the niggling cough too often close at hand, ready to be triggered and activated.

"Sorry," he chokes, moving away from Sherlock a bit and pushing him away a small distance, drawing in deep breaths as the coughing racks his frame. He can feel rattling deep in his chest, the painful grating of ribs that are still unstable enough to remind him of the fracture lines, his wind coming hard as his body is almost fully in spasm. There is a faint wheeze as he tries to suppress it only to need to breathe deeper, cough again.

For all the times as a physician he has seen, assessed, treated, and encountered pneumonia, he cannot help but be impressed at the severity of it, the frustration of breathing, the sensation of foreign substances clinging tenaciously inside him, the inability to breathe, to be normal.

It lasts too long, quite a few minutes, which linger endlessly, coughing, trying to manage it, waiting for the spasm to give over, dealing with the discomfort and the sense of breathlessness. When John finally is able to breathe easy, his own tea is cold and Sherlock has fixed his own cup.

"I'll reheat that?" Sherlock asks, and John nods quietly as he does so, brings it back. "Sorry if I ..." Sherlock brushes a thumb over his own lip. "If that made things worse."

Off-handedly, John offers a helpless shrug of his shoulders. "It was quite nice, right up until ..."

"I took your breath away." The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches in self-amusement.

"God stop," John breathes, knowing that to laugh again so soon would probably end the same way - in bronchospasm. "I hate this."

"I'm sure. I would too." Sherlock does actually look apologetic, chagrined, as he hands John the incentive spirometer. "I know you don't want it, don't want to hear it, but this might help you get underneath the mucus."

"I can't. Not now." Sherlock levels him a look. "I _can't_. That was ..., you don't understand, it bloody hurts. It'll start the coughing all over again."

Sherlock doesn't react immediately, simply stares back at him knowing he is asking something difficult, something ultimately for good but that was gut-wrenching. When he finally does speak, it is gently and with compassion. "I only know that this apparatus helps you, helps move all that," and he gestures at his chest, indicating, "junk around in there, get rid of it." The look they share is serious, lingering, and John watches closely as Sherlock adds, "Believe me, I also know it's hard, choosing pain."

++

Sherlock looks at John, there on Baker Street, but he is remembering another time, another place in London when he looked at John, each of them on their mobiles, him from the top of a roof while John watched from the street. Oh, he knows about choosing pain.

++

John closes his eyes, leans back, his jaw tightening in frustration.

Sherlock knows it is John's decision. "Maybe try this first?" Two pain pills are offered, taken, and then a little while later John holds the mouthpiece of the spirometer as if it is feared. Dangerous. John does, eventually, manage to pull a few deep breaths, and when the coughing starts again, he flings it in agitated annoyance and only remotely satisfied as the piece clacks on the floor and - sadly - does not shatter. By the time Rosie is dropped off by Molly, John is sweating and exhausted, a limp presence on the couch.

That evening, his tolerance is approaching nil, and Sherlock runs interference with Rosie, keeping her occupied and engaged. There is green play-doh under his fingernails, another game of peek-a-boo with the skull, a bubble bath. John is too irritable to appreciate it, and before long, and John defers the typical book-reading before bedtime to Sherlock with a curt, "Not tonight. Just, no."

He even refuses, later after Rosie has gone up for the night, to get off the couch, deciding that he might as well just sleep there.

"John."

No answer.

"John."

A snarl, _"What?"_

"It won't always be this way, you know."

"Easy for you to say."

"True." Sherlock readily admits that as fact, but needs to get John's attention about it too. "This isn't exactly easy for me, either. I know it's not the same, I wasn't injured like you, but ..." he tries to gentle the words, reaching over to lay a steady hand over John's arm. "It's been a long road. And ... some adaptations have been made, you realise."

There is a hard, visible swallow as John looks back at Sherlock, both of them with eyes wide open, and he sees the compassion. He remembers quite vividly the Sherlock he'd first met: rude, impolite, arrogant, bizarre. Quirky. So many years ago, so many things they've done, experienced, survived. The past month, a whole new side of the man. Impressive. More tolerant. He flicks at the green play-dough on Sherlock's hand. Giving. Sacrificial.

Sacrificial, as he'd been with Magnussen and Mary, at the wedding. Sacrificial, on the roof at Barts, and John is overwhelmed again, the breadth and depth of what's happened, and even more, at what Sherlock has done. He lets out a breath as the circumstance hits him anew. "I know. You've been ... amazing." To his horror, a few tears coalesce, form, spill. A course sigh, a tiny hoarse breath,  _"Oh god."_

Sherlock recalls, himself, the words from Dr. Snyder, from some of the nurses, warning him about the adjustment period once they were home, knows it is expected. John's emotions, the realisation, the acceptance and challenges. But it doesn't make it any easier. "It's okay. We'll get through this."

A snort of disbelief.

"Scoff if you wish. But we will. Because I have ordained it to be so." John can't help the brief bark of laughter at Sherlock's delivery, regal, ridiculous, arm raised at the proclamation. "You're better now than you were. Lots of progress to get to this point. But it didn't happen overnight." John closes his eyes but he is calmer, and Sherlock lets the silence sit for a while before speaking again. "I seem to recall what you told Mrs. Hudson when she had that surgical procedure, gall bladder removal or something." John nods, it had been a few years previously. "You told her to expect her recovery to be twice the length of her inpatient stay. Two days to recover from every one day in the hospital, isn't that what you said?"

From under partially closed and still annoyed eyelids, John glances, glares even, at Sherlock's recall, at his offering up John's own words on the offensive. "Yet you can't hear me when I tell you we're out of milk. Or to go make your own tea. Or that Rosie's nappy ..."

He cuts off the tirade John is all too ready and willing to launch into. "So do the math. You've been home what, three days? After thirteen or so in the hospital."

John doesn't specifically respond to that, but Sherlock can see that he is much less aggrieved. He mutters, eventually, "I hate when you're right, when you throw such scientific data from fully credible, scholarly sources back at me."

Two faint twitches, two smiles not fully allowed to exist, and Sherlock makes a decision. "Come. It's late, and you're not sleeping out here."

One eye opens. "All right. You're joining me?"

"I'll help you get settled, then be along in a bit."

++

The day of John's first appointment with his orthopedist since his return starts off rough, with Rosie awakening early and miserable, and John out of sorts as well.

"Give me that," he demands, pointing at the pulse oximeter. The oxygen is off, levels had been okay earlier in the day.

"You're fine."

"What did you just say?" John is spoiling for a fight, and thinks - again - about how Sherlock knows exactly how to rile him up in mere seconds.

"No." John holds out his hand, but Sherlock won't give it to him. "You want to depend on that, really? How are you feeling?"

"Low."

"Your colour is okay."

"It doesn't feel ..." John begins, then his ire kicks back in. "I don't have to explain it to you, actually. So. Give over." There is a steely glare, a quiet, ominous set of John's eyes. "I'd like to --"

"No." Sherlock holds his gaze. "You don't need it." More silence. "I'm not giving it to you."

"I'm not asking for the moon. Or something out of the realm of possibility." His voice is tight between teeth that are grinding together. _"Sherlock."_

Sherlock is not intimidated, not in the least. "I think I'd rather give you a better reason to feel winded."

John almost cannot believe what Sherlock hints at. Blinking a few times, he shakes his head a little before speaking. "Your sense of timing is appalling. As if I'd ..."

"Oh, please. Because you can be persuaded."

Both of them glance into the adjoining room where Rosie is quite entertained, a few toys, stacking blocks, putting things in a box, dumping them out again. She is, most importantly, not paying attention to them.

"Swear to god, give that to me, and keep your bloody mouth away from me, so help me."

"Oh? Or what? As if I'm worried about your threats." Sherlock, of course, is thriving on the confrontation.

"Sherlock."

"Your _empty_ threats."

"You doubt that I couldn't bloody your _bloody_ mouth? Because I assure you, even now... Perhaps especially now, _I most definitely can."_

Sherlock stands, leans down, the aggressor, an odd look of triumph in his arrogance. "How winded are you feeling right now? Not very, I do say, given that you're fussing, complaining, without care."

He whispers the curse, given Rosie's proximity, but feels the need to use the word anyway. "Fuck off." John realises that not only is he still feeling rather feisty, invincible, ready to attack again, but that - annoyingly - Sherlock is right.

It is reminiscent of him forgetting his bloody cane at _bloody_ Angelo's.

John notices the faintest twinge of Sherlock's mouth trying not to smile, and there is a gleam in Sherlock's eye as he simply watches John. Blatantly, boldly, Sherlock's eyes flick to John's mouth, and John watches wide-eyed himself as Sherlock, predatory, leans further toward him, closer.

"Can I?" Sherlock asks. And when John nods, two hands one on each side of John's head, a holding, a pressing, fingers keeping John still and unable to get away even if he wanted - which he wholeheartedly does not - and bold lips press down, onto and then around John's mouth. Insistent lips and tongues meet, and two muscled bodies hold and cling and grip. It lasts long minutes, the exploring and dueling of tongues from time to time, mostly lips and breathing and angles and oh, so close.

John's hands, unsure initially what to do and one still hindered by the damn bloody blue cast, end up grabbing at Sherlock's shirt, the free hand reaching around Sherlock's waist to pull and hold. Combined body heat swells and their breathing is eventually all either of them can hear. "Now," Sherlock says taking a half step back and wiping at his mouth on the back of his hand, "isn't that a much better way to lose your breath?"

At that particular moment, John couldn't care less about his oxygen level. "God yes." He clutches Sherlock's shirt again, dragging him back to bring their lips together again, jaws roughened with the end-of-day stubble, and his fingers reach for Sherlock's shirt buttons and undo a few of them. The heat emanating is remarkable, and John bends his neck to plant a kiss there, too, inhaling deeply. "Is this --?" He wants to ask if this is okay, the touching, the aggressive seeking

"Yes," Sherlock doesn't even let him finish the question, simply arches his body so that John's hand finds his pectoral muscle, his nipple. There is a press, a squeeze, the slightest almost-pinch. "A thousand times, yes."

There is the sound of an unattended toddler, a box being upended and seemingly thousands of little pieces hitting the floor with a two-year old shriek of delight, and then the resultant sounds of two adult male sighs of a completely different kind than had been present a minute previously.

++

The visit to the orthopedist is as uneventful as can be expected with his challenges of mobility, but it at least lays out a plan. Non-weight-bearing another few days, progressing to toe-touch as tolerated, partial weight-bearing with the use of a cane along with the walking boot. But the earliest predictions had been correct - reimaging at a future date, and the boot for another six to eight weeks. He modifies the physical therapy visits to only as-needed and tells John not to overdo it, progress slowly, call with any questions, and "see you in four weeks" for a check.

The scooter does offer some freedom, and John is completely exhausted by the time they return to the flat. Just moving from cab to kerb and struggling with doorways and steps was plenty. Not to mention the bloody oxygen tank, which they'd brought along just in case it was needed, and they are both feeling fairly satisfied when John returns home without a drop in his oxygen levels. But he is winded after the activity, and has another coughing fit following the arduous trek up the stairs, and John doesn't speak much to anyone after that.

He attempts a room air nap on the couch after the excursion, and silently allows Sherlock to place the monitor. His nap is punctuated by perpetually alarming oximetry, and they replace the oxygen so John can at least get a little bit of more restful sleep. Later, John spends a few minutes that afternoon while Rosie was napping, finding the video clip of the movie Jaws where the scuba tank explodes, and he watches it on loop and tries to imagine something satisfying that could be done with his own.

"It's a rental. You can't." Sherlock offers a sideways smile when John glares at him. "I can see the reflection of the video in the window. And I've been watching you glare at the tank, the whole contraption almost the whole time we were outside."

"It's annoying."

"Tell that to your incentive spirometer while you use it, then."

The silence that follows that statement is full of teeth-clenching and high blood pressure. Sherlock picks at the scab, rips at the plaster, and incites a bit of a battle. "You know you need to. You've come too far, battling this pneumonia, to not finish well. It's important." He speaks calmly, condescending, the last straw. "Doctor's orders."

The anger in John spills over, and he throws the cannula off in a fit of pique. There is angry, quite annoyed growling, and John grits out, "I cannot even tell you how much I hate this." Sherlock watches, says nothing, after a few minutes he goes to get the pulse oximeter, which John dutifully applies, still aggravated. They watch, wait, ninety-three.

A few deep breaths, and then John visibly makes a decision and partially relaxes. Sherlock hands him the daily crossword puzzle and a pen but John doesn't take that, choosing instead the mindless game he's been playing on his mobile.

A few more minutes, and he leans to check the pulse oximeter.

Ninety-four.

John glances at Sherlock to see if he noticed, finds that of course he has been watching. "Hardly a surprise. Your pain is better, haven't taken anything since ... early yesterday. Inspiratory efforts are smoother."

"The ribs are healing. I do think can breathe deeper." John seems to need to restate the obvious, and waits for Sherlock to mock him for it.

"Mostly, yes." Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at the incentive spirometer again. "John," he goads when John doesn't pick the device up. _"John,"_ he presses again. "Go on."

"It's up. I don't need it." John knows his argument is false but digs his heels in anyway.

"You need it more now, maybe we should increase your ..." Sherlock picks up the gadget and moves the slide bar, the goal of each breath, up to three liters.

John snatches it, slides it back down where it had been. "No."

"Then do ten at that level. We'll go up after dinner."

"Sod off."

"You'll likely still need oxygen at night from time to time, if you'll recall what Dr. Sny--"

"This is going to look lovely wedged in your throat." John narrows an eye, pulls a breath that goes just over three liters and when Sherlock smirks at his achievement, John issues a death stare in return.

++

John disconnects the mobile call. "So that was the home health nurse. I canceled the visit we had scheduled for tomorrow." When Sherlock looks up, the question in his eyes, John continues. "Waste of everyone's time. Labs were okay last time, and there's enough improvement that I think --"

"You don't have to sell it to me. You probably didn't need the last one, other than for the mobile blood draw for our convenience."

John sits back, still on room air and enjoying the freedom he had during the day at least. He was hopeful that soon he could manage to not be awakened by the pulse ox alarm going off when he slept. Each time he tried, the device awakened him, at which point Sherlock would help him reconnect the oxygen before falling back to sleep. "Maybe tonight I won't need it."

"You probably hypoventilate at night, maybe a touch of sleep apnea, aggravated with the injuries, so it stands to reason nights are going to be different." Sherlock caves a little, softens. "It's expected, but it won't always be this way."

The hospital paperwork, home visits from both nurse and physical therapist, John begins to sort through, binning some of it, filing the rest to hopefully never get looked at again. He finds a folder of paperwork including discharge summary and records from the hospital in Scotland, and leans back holding them. "I haven't seen this before."

Sherlock glances over. "I asked for copies of some records before we left." He watches John's hesitancy as he held onto the envelope. "You don't have to ever look at them if you don't want to."

They hadn't really talked much about those days. It is like a distant horrible nightmare, most of what John remembers, the ventilator, the chest tube, the pain, the vague snippets of being smothered and vividly thinking, initially, that Rosie had been in the car with him. There is still a block of time he doesn't remember and probably never will. The endless nights alone, he recalls. The nurses who talked with him, sat with him. And Sherlock's daily, reliable, committed visits. The little photos and videos that were the bright spots of his separation from Rosie in between her actual (though stressful) visits, particularly that first one where she wanted nothing to do with him and clung like a vine to Sherlock. The trip home. The paperwork is part of their story, and he is a little wary of the contents, the possible triggering. "Read it with me?"

Rosie climbs into Sherlock's lap as they settle in on the couch, shoulders together, flipping through the lengthy course of hospitalisation, the review of John's stay.

"I only skimmed through these before. I didn't know they'd drawn a legal blood alcohol," Sherlock says at the very beginning as they read the section on presentation. "Came back zero."

"I'm sure it's routine, any motor vehicle trauma. And I was driving, so. Yeah, not drinking." His eyes catch at Sherlock's. "Were you thinking I'd been?"

"Not especially. And that alone is odd, given my typically ... suspicious disposition."

"You were stressed."

"You were a mess, John." Sherlock's voice is oddly toned as he adds, "At first, I couldn't find you. And then ..." he leaves the rest unsaid as he ruffles at the wispy curls on Rosie's head.

John is quiet, eyes darting across the words, flips over a few pages as the detailed Course of Hospitalisation section is verbose. "Failure to wean, ventilator dependent respiratory failure, hypoxaemia, complications of chest tube, altered mental status, delirium, severe agitation ... " he picks out an occasional word. "I don't remember so much of this, the ICU, you being there, this says you insisted on being present at the bedside during the wean with ultimate successful liberation ..."

"You were agitated every time they did a breathing trial. Every time." Their hands slide together and Rosie's joins them, briefly, and Sherlock lifts the enjoined triad of hands to admire the sweetness of it. Rosie then decides she is bored and gets down to go find something more interesting to play with. "I simply insisted on being allowed in while you were waking up and before your behaviour deteriorated, ended up figuring out why you were agitated, and you, for the most part, listened to me and stayed calm until they could get the tube out."

"I don't remember that."

"Perhaps aggravated by your history. Post Propofol Infusion Syndrome, perhaps. So goes the literature." He gives a quick shudder. "I'm glad you don't remember it, because it was bloody awful."

"Thank you for that. I might've ended up with a trach, or worse, had you not been there."

"Seems like an eternity ago." He turns to face John best he can, a hand coming up, brushing at temple, remembering this face, this beloved face in distress, breathing tube protruding, angry scars. The fear. The way John had, in the terror and the distress, looked at him and clung. The eyes, those John Watson trusting eyes. "Seems like yesterday." He draws a thumb over the healing suture line that is now without bandage or adhesive. "And here we are."

From down the stairs there is noise, and a faint voice calling, her trademark yoo-hoo, and then, "Tea and biscuits!" A pause, and then she adds, "And I'm not carrying anything up these stairs to you today."

John cannot help the chuckle, and he reaches for his cane. The more they've done this, the stairs, the better it is, the stronger he's become. He teases, "Race you?"

"Come, munchkin!" Sherlock ignores John as he lifts Rosie. "Mrs. Hudson wants to visit with you."

"Bits!" she says, patting her hands on his chest and squirming with excitement. It is impossible not to grin back at her broad toothy smile, not that he would try anyway. "Sh'ock, bits!"

"Yes, biscuits," he agrees, and John hears him emphasise the syllabic pronunciation for Rosie, again, sweetly. "I'll take you down to Mrs. Hudson and the biscuits, and then come back up to help your father."

The steps, John is relieved, are much easier without the oxygen tank. The biscuits, even sweeter for the journey downstairs and the company they keep.

++

John progresses slowly from toe-touching to partial weight-bearing, though the pain is still surprising and his foot still feels rather weak inside the boot. Sherlock makes contact with the Yard and takes a few cases that can be worked on from home, and they take care of some via email without having to leave the flat. John still uses the scooter much of the time, and finds that he has finally figured out the best way to manoeuver, approach furniture, and best get around safely without falling. Or nearly falling, a couple of times.

One morning John has quite a scare, all three of them up and about, Sherlock is in the bedroom and Rosie is playing. There is an unexpected burst of noise, while he is at the sink in the loo, door open. There is an unmistakable sound of things dropping, plastic hitting carpeting and the sickening thwump of a body piece striking a solid unmovable object. John is just finishing brushing his teeth - one of the most awkward things he finds such a difficult task, balancing, hands uncomfortable, wedged into various stages of the process - as he hears it. 

The thumping is followed immediately, instantaneously by Rosie's shrill cry of distress, and though John knows crying is at least medically better than the absolute absence of crying, it is horrible. He barely manages to shut off the water and spit out a foamy mouthful of toothpaste in his hurry to get to her. He can't see her, can't possibly see her, reach her quickly enough.

"Rosie, I'm coming," he blurts, but her own cries are loud so she certainly is not assuaged. His scooter is a few hand-holds away, a limp, a pivot on his non-booted leg, finally in the hallway and on his slow path toward whatever awaits in the sitting room. He envisions a coffee-table sized gouge on her face or something, a river of blood, a panicked child. Which will mix quite nicely, he knows, with his own panic.

The sight that greets him instead is Sherlock's profile against the window, a still crying Rosie in his arms. He is tousled, pyjama pants on, a hastily donned tee shirt, hair completely askance. Rosie's scream is already much less though her face is still red, eyes scrunched shut, and his arms wrap around her, attempting to soothe, holding her close, safe, secure. Loved. 

His voice reaches John, "Shhh, it's okay, I've got you, that must've been so scary, but you're all right, my little Watson," and he croons and soothes her as he carries her quickly toward the kitchen and out of John's line of sight, returning moments later with a terrycloth object from the freezer - Boo-boo Bunny, John sees, the little thing they keep in the freezer that provides an easily accessible, kid-friendly, gel icepack. He presses it to the corner of her forehead, where John can see a scrape and the faintest blue bruise already forming a goose egg. "We'll hold that on, and you and I will sit here with your green blanket," and he lowers into his chair, where he has already grabbed a small handful of her board books, "while your daddy resumes breathing and wipes the ridiculous trail of toothpaste off his face." There is a faint, crooked smile at that though Sherlock doesn't look directly at him.

John doesn't move even after Sherlock tucks Rosie in under his chin, using his free hand to hold the cold pack on her forehead. The green blanket is snuggled around them both, and Rosie has a few hiccups, those shuddering breaths at the end of a crying jag. He lets her choose a book, which she does rather resourcefully with her toes given that her one hand is holding the blanket tightly and the other is tethered by her thumb in her mouth. The book is about a sunny day and a picnic, but Sherlock manages to squeeze in a fictitious line about an inanimate object wiping away toothpaste which John takes as a direction, a reminder, for him.

The rest of the day passes easily, without further injury, but the vision of Sherlock taking care of Rosie with such tenderness sticks with John.

Later that evening, John manages to manouever the steps and put her to bed upstairs for the first time, and upon his return to the downstairs, Sherlock is watching him carefully. "That went all right," he observes. "I meant the steps, but Rosie too, I suppose."

"Yes." John takes a deep breath as the thought, the niggling prompting he's considered demands to be spoken. "So I guess, soon, I could move --"

"No."

"No?"

"Unless you want to."

"I'd rather not, no. But," John hesitates again. "We are talking about --"

"Yes, sleeping arrangements."

John slides his knee back on the scooter, takes a few pushes until he is close to the couch next to Sherlock. "Well, if I'm staying, I think there's something else we should --" _discuss._

Sherlock smirks as he meets John's questioning and uncertainness, and answers quite confidently, "Yes."

"What are you on about, already?" John still has a knee on the scooter. "I haven't even managed to ..." _say it._

"The answer is yes. It's time." Sherlock folds aside whatever he's been reading, and with a conservative amount of effort expended, he comes to stand near John. "We've waited long enough, don't you think?" The quiet baritone words are more a statement, a reassurance, and they settle between them. Sherlock's hand finds John's shoulder.

There is heat and heavy-lidded blinking in their held gazes as Sherlock's words trail off, and John cannot stop the disbelieving laugh that bubbles from him. "What if I was going to talk about changing tea brands, or about the day plans for Rosie?"

"You weren't. I've been reading you for too many years to be completely fooled."

"Well, then you have to know that I want ..." and John lifts his hand to touch Sherlock's face, a fingertip under his fringe, their skin tingling. A faint nod from within the gentle touch of John's hand. "What about you?" John whispers.

Sherlock smiles, a warm, fuzzy, perfect, heartfelt smile. "Reading you is not the only thing I've been doing for years."

Glittery eyes stare back, the slight crimp of John's eyebrows seem to ask, _Really? Do you mean that?_

The twitchy smile, the nostril flare answers, _Yes of course I mean that._

"As long as you're sure."

"Yes." Sherlock's voice is soft and low. "John?"

John reaches out a hand to slide down Sherlock's arm, traces it to his fingers then whispers the word "Please" and as Sherlock nods, John steers himself toward the bedroom. Some awkward moments later John removes the black plastic boot and Sherlock toes himself out of his shoes. "Did you bring the ...?" John begins to ask, and Sherlock tilts his head at where he has placed the baby monitor. All is quiet, unmoving, on the little sepia video screen. It strikes John anew at all that Sherlock is managing, taking care of, the attentiveness that is still mostly unknown to anyone outside the confines of their flat. 

Muted conversation intersperses with the rustle of linen, clothing slithering to the floor, the soft pat of a sock, a shirt, the thunk of a mobile set down on the nightstand. The symphony is joined by the soft creak of mattress springs, the sound of mouths and tongues, of hands. The tugging of a pillow, slide of bodies repositioning, the faint wet sound of a kiss, a joining of bare chest to bare chest. John's cast catches briefly on the fabric, the fiberglass a smooth scrape across the sheets.

"You sure you're ...?"

"I'm sure. You?"

"Yes."

"Good, yes."

"Can I ...?"

"God yes."

A tentative hand brushes over John's chest, avoiding the scars both old and new for the moment, and Sherlock's lips drag across, tasting, touching, getting acquainted, until he pushes back slightly to loom over John for a moment. "You should know that I've never ...  What Mycroft said, that time, is true."

"I won't hurt you, you know." John uses a hand to pull Sherlock's mouth back down, another snog, a nuzzle.

"I'm more worried about hurting you."

"Then we'll both just, take it easy and handle with care, yeah?" Sherlock presses up on an elbow, lifting his shoulders back enough to look John in the eye at John's words. John can read the nervousness in Sherlock's face. "It's okay, it's just us. And ... we'll figure it out."

Sherlock is unconvinced.

"Or we don't have to ..."

"Oh yes we do." The soft words overwrite the intensity of the emotion, the quiet vehemence with which Sherlock means them. "I mean, yes, lets."

John reassures with a touch, a kiss, a brushing of his hand down Sherlock's chest, his thumb brushing lightly over the smattering of chest hair, over his pinkened nipple, over the sworl of hair above his navel. And below, as well, and Sherlock's belly dips and undulates and twitches as John's hand reaches.

"Is this okay?"

"Fine." Then, "Oh, yes, harder."

A few minutes, faster breathing, muscles firm, hands exploring. "Are you ...?"

"Swear to god," John breathes, "don't ask me again."

"Right."

The words devolve into more sounds, an occasional moan, an encouraging epithet, a huffing of an exhale.

Hands reach down, seeking. And finding, encircling. "Do you have any ...?"

"No."

"'S okay, won't take long anyway, I don't think."

Sherlock is beyond words as John tightens his grip, digs in with his heel for better leverage, and there is a gasp of warning, a sudden clinging with overwhelmed fingers. Sherlock's whole body tenses, shudders, and John's hand is warm, sticky as it joins Sherlock's and a few thrusts later, John freezes, tightens, and holds his breath as his body finally crests, releases, relaxes, melts.

A quick clean up, and Sherlock leaves the bed briefly, carefully, to retrieve two tee shirts, pyjama bottoms, and extinguishes the light before joining John back on the bed. In the darkness, Sherlock hands John the oximeter probe, which has been mostly out of the way on his casted fingers, where he moves that arm less, where it doesn't seem to bother him much. He sighs. "Seems unnecessary."

"Humour me, I'll sleep easier knowing ..."

Of course John does, glancing over to see Sherlock's profile, hear his still exaggerated breathing, feel the heat radiating between the two of them.

"That was ..." John has difficulty choosing the completion of that sentence and as the phrase dangles, Sherlock reaches over, guides him carefully so that they are entangled, intertwined, resting.

John's head is tucked over Sherlock's shoulder and he feels Sherlock press his mouth to his hair. "Yes, it was. All of that. And more."

The pulse oximeter is blissfully silent for the duration of the night.

++ 

John's eyes open as he lays on his back. If he takes a really, really deep breath, he can still feel the pain in the ribs, the osteoclastic remodeling, the calcium deposits that will actually make his bones slightly stronger in the spot where his ribs had been broken. He does a quick inventory before deciding to just lay there and enjoy the solitude, the peace, the moments before he has to get up, before there are demands on his day. The arm cast is supposed to come off in another week, and he will be quite relieved to see that specific nuisance go. For all the choosing blue, he's ready to see flesh there instead. It no longer pains him, but the itching can get a bit annoying.

His breathing feels nearly normal, unless he's coughing, sneezing, or otherwise winded. His ribs, already determined to be all right for the moment, are better.

Now that he has finally weaned completely off the oxygen, both day and night, he feels more approaching normal, but especially at night. The nights are quite wonderful for a couple of reasons, one being that he can slip out of the walking boot, his right foot and ankle still with enough pain, still with some healing to do. Blasted soft tissue injury, he'd told patients for years that it was usually better to just have broken the damned thing because it would heal faster. And it was absolutely true. For now, though, he trods and plods and thumps around the flat lugging the hard plastic ... appendage. The cane only accompanies him out of the flat when the walk is expected to be long, but mostly, as had been the case many years ago, more often than not he forgets it.

The other wonderful thing about the nights is sharing the room, the bed, finally, with Sherlock. Every night. He glances over, where Sherlock's eyes are still closed, face relaxed, breathing evenly. When he sleeps, he goes down for the count, usually coming to bed at the same time these days rather than after John has already fallen asleep. No matter the timing, John still appreciates, revels, in the moments they share.

And they are discovering things about the other, what Sherlock likes, what Sherlock is ready for, what John's healing body is able to do. To perform. And smiling, John thinks that even given their limitations, this new aspect of their relationship is good. No, better than that - excellent, satisfying, deeply intimate.

 _Fine_ , even, he considers knowing he is smiling more broadly at the word in his thoughts.

"You're thinking too loud," comes the murmur from the pillow, and it is followed by a quick flopping of Sherlock's long frame so that he is resting against John, shoulder tucked into John's armpit, knee across John's thigh. "Stop 't."

Smiling fondly even though Sherlock can't see, John slides his arm around behind Sherlock's back and a few adjustments are made until they are warm and cuddling and sleepy. The small blue light on the baby monitor casts a very faint glow, but from within the speaker all is silent.

Sherlock's near hand snakes and slithers across John's waist, right in between where John's tee shirt has ridden up, the strip of skin above his pyjamas.

John tucks his head down to kiss at Sherlock's temple, feeling the warmth of his hand on the skin of his belly. The hand is alive, wiggling, broadcasting its intent. "What's this, again already?"

A low rumbling chuckle comes from Sherlock's throat, and he writhes a little as he savors the feel of their bodies, comfortable, warm, together. "It's been _hours."_

"That long?" John teases, punctuating the word long with a playful measurement of his fingers against the front of Sherlock's pyjamas. "I could probably help you with that."

"Have mercy," Sherlock breathes, sucking in his belly as John's fingers snake inside the drawstring pants, seeking, searching, _finding_. "God yes."

++

Christmas has several surprises for them.

One of them is a letter that arrives to him at his work, part time at the surgery for now, where he is working again. The scooter long gone, the boot also. His reminders, however, the soreness, the still thinner right calf muscle, the twinge now and again, well... improving.

The surprise is a letter that arrives in a hand-addressed envelope. The postmark, Scotland.

 

_Dear Dr. John Watson,_

_I've wanted to reach out for a while now, you've been on my mind, and I can't seem to let go of the notion to write._

_To wish you well._

_And to apologise._

_My brother was the driver of the truck that hit you a few months back. As you know, he perished at the scene, and the M.E. thought it most likely he'd fallen asleep at the wheel. We'd long asked him to be careful, to rest more, to break up his longer trips. But he was a strong-willed, stubborn man who thrived on productivity._

_I got your name from the police report, the news article told me where you live, and finally I got around to some internet searching that led me to the little bio that your work has on their website introducing their staff. I'm glad, far as I can tell, that you're recovering and back to work. I hope it was okay to send this letter to you at your place of employment._

_I wish the accident had never happened of course, but some good things have come from it. A fund was established in his name to help regulate hours behind the wheel for professional haulers and drivers, as well as to make some improvements to that stretch of road. Too late for him, but it gives me hope._

_I am deeply sorry, again, for your pain and suffering. I trust you harbour him no ill will for the unfortunate accident._

_Kim, a grieving sister_

 

Rosie has been tucked in for the night when John hands Sherlock the note and pulls out a blank sheet of stationery to answer her with.

 

_Dear Kim,_

_Thank you for your note. I appreciate your good wishes, and at the same time I want to let you know that your apology - while understandable - is unnecessary. Accidents happen, and there is of course only sadness and regret for your loss._

_I'm glad to hear there are positive outcomes to such a horrible event for your family. Some good things have happened for me, too, as a result of the experience. I am a more understanding physician, and have lived through a medical nightmare that has forever changed both me, my partner, who was there from the beginning, and my daughter as well._

_It was kind of you to reach out. Thank you again..._

_John_

 

++ 

The other surprise, a scrapbook of photos. Mycroft hands the unwrapped book to John, one of those printing company bound custom arrangements. The cover is a non-descript photo, a landscape of beauty, a rustic pathway, peaked mountains. Inside, cleverly arranged, are photos, a few of Scotland, of the journey over the past months. Instead of highlighting the pain, suffering, and injury, the photos detail more of the connection, the survival, the triumph. It begins with a muted, partially focused version of the police accident report, meanders through a few screen shots of their video sessions, Sherlock's note against the incentive spirometer of all things, that is crystal clear on the words "Deep Breath" in Sherlock's inimitable handwriting. There are some of Rosie, smiling, playing against the backdrop of what she experienced in Scotland, happy and healthy. The selfie Sherlock had taken, the one in the hotel room with Rosie in his arms, her blanket and her thumb takes up a full page, and when John sees that one, he pauses for a long time, his hand still until it touches the image, a caress of sorts. There are a few overlays of what Mycroft must have obtained from their webcam devices, Sherlock's mobile probably, the flat, things they hadn't offered him but that weren't hidden, the one of a video call with Sherlock in the thumbnail, John wearing the BiPAP oxygen.

John stares hard at that one, the hospital bed and setting, while Sherlock catches Mycroft's eye, the question unverbalised. "I had some help. Anthea," Mycroft utters quietly.

The thanks and well-done are written in the softness and sincerity of Sherlock's smile, and Mycroft returns one of his own.

John's chuckle brings them back to the album, where he has turned the page again. There is one of Rosie and her play-dough with Mycroft and Molly on the train. Mycroft's expression, good-naturedly dour and Molly is clearly, plainly, obviously giggling. Rosie herself, _thrilled._

The final page is one of the trio, a recent excursion, walking, Rosie's pushchair in front of them, John's cane visible if you look hard for it. They are all focused on something off the photo of course, their faces rapt, expressions engaged and vibrant. It is as much normalcy as anything else. They have both hope and a future. In the photo, John is leaning slightly toward Sherlock, interacting, and, quite naturally, Sherlock's Belstaff collar is flipped up.

Embossed on the back cover is an artists rendition of six silhouettes, quite easily recognisable, set against a colourful backdrop of a pale London sky. Eurus and Mycroft are on one edge, Mary on the opposite. In the center, larger and slightly bolder, are John, Sherlock, and Rosie. It is discreet enough that no one person stands out.

It is tasteful.

It is their story.

Underneath the silhouette image is a smaller inset, the very bowl that is in John and Sherlock's bedroom. It is beautiful, gold edges over handpainted delicately painted vines, leaves, metallic highlights, fruit lovingly depicted on the cracked and repaired porcelain, the lighting illuminating it. Beneath all that are the words,

_**The world breaks everyone** _

_**and afterward many are strong in the broken places.**_  

From where they are seated, John is able to slide his hand casually along Sherlock's upper arm, and the squeeze conveys gratitude and connection. None of them speak for a moment and John draws his hand back and flips the book open to view it again.

When his fingers touch the words again on the back cover, Mycroft stands. "Hemingway," he says quietly.

"Farewell to Arms," John smiles as he adds softly to the conversation, then grows silent again. Both John and Sherlock seem particularly touched, quiet, thoughtful, and rendered speechless at the enormity of what the book, the words, the photos have managed to capture.

John stands too. Without conscious thought, he lifts overwhelmed eyes to Mycroft's hooded ones, but speech fails him. He is unable to stop himself from crossing the short distance to reach him, the oddest quick grateful embrace, and finally a thank you is whispered as Mycroft then steps toward the door. A nod, a tilt of his head, the faintest reassuring smile, and he is gone.

++

Sherlock takes Rosie to her daycare, where she will spend another morning playing, learning, and enjoying the other children and her teachers. He returns home with pastry for he and John, but instead of finding John in the kitchen over the usual cup of tea, the table is empty.

Instead, John is standing in front of the mirror in the bath. His shirt is off, his face freshly shaven, and he leans against the sink with a hip as he flexes his right wrist. Something is obviously on John's mind, given the faraway set of his eyes and the emotion about his face. He gives Sherlock, who is hesitating just inside the doorjamb, a flick of his smile anyway, but there is still sadness in his look.

"Wrist still bothering you?"

"Not too much, no."

Sherlock follows John's eye direction to see that he is looking at the mostly-healed, light pink scar of where the chest tube had been, a few rib indentations below his clavicle. It is no longer angry red or swollen, the scab long gone, the only marker of recent trauma is the remaining discolouration and changed contour of the intercostal space.

The room is somewhat humid and steamy from his recent shave, and Sherlock settles himself, moves to stand behind John so that they are both quite visible and they easily make eye contact in the mirror. Smoothly, John leans back just a little so that his shoulders are resting against Sherlock's shirt, his chest.

"I hope it doesn't bother you, that scar," Sherlock posits, "because it shouldn't."

There is a defeated sigh. "I know. It shouldn't." He brushes a hand across his gunshot wound on the other shoulder, "Quite a collection." The lighting in the room from over the mirror catches at the scar on his forehead, and he doesn't muffle the sigh as he brushes his fingertips over that too.

"Is this show and tell? I'll uncover mine if it would make you feel any less ..." Sherlock presses over where his own gunshot wound, the small circle, has long ago faded to whitish pink.

John's eyes drift closed. "No, I'm good."

Sherlock's arms come around John easily, comfortably, the familiarity of their physical touch second nature now.  Pressed lightly together from mid-thigh to shoulder, there is warmth and muscle and the fit of them together is reassuring. John can feel the exhale, the steady beat of Sherlock's heart that radiates between them.

"Think we would have ended up here if it had never happened?" John's question is quiet.

"Yes." His chin tips down to rest against the side of John's head. "Don't you?"

"Might have taken me a bit longer to come around, I reckon." A hesitation, "But yes, of course. It was meant to be."

"Of course it would have taken you longer, you're an idiot."

"You are just hysterical. That will just never not be funny, so thank you for waiting since oh, yes, that's right, I think, it was just yesterday you said something similar."

"You're _my_ idiot."

"What's gotten into you this morning?"

"Nothing yet," Sherlock teases, devilish, his lips coming to find John's ear and nibble at it playfully. "But Rosie's gone for a few hours, so ..."

Shaking his head slightly at Sherlock's atypical, uncharacteristic forward proposition, John stands upright again and smiles as he turns his body within their loose embrace. "All right." He tugs at Sherlock, lips seeking, catches Sherlock's lower lip between his, firmly. "You've persuaded me."

"You're pretty much always ready these days."

"As are you."

Sherlock's hand slides down John's arm then comes to brush the back of his fingers along John's smooth jaw, kisses the trail of where his hand has been. "And maybe afterward, I stopped at Paul's for pastry."

"For that, I'll even make you tea."

Thoughts of tea, pastry, and even their conversation fade to the background as they make their way back to bed, sharing such connection with each other. But the gift of the day, the reminders all around them of all that they have - finally - neither of them take that for granted.

++

_John and Sherlock stand in their jointly shared bedroom, watching, looking, seeing. They have unpacked a carefully boxed item purchased earlier from an artist's studio. The bowl, lovely vines, painted leaves, fruit, metallic accent, has been intentionally, carefully, finished, crafted, and then just as carefully and deliberately broken. And then intentionally, skillfully repaired. There is an overlay of fine gold etched over each suture line, and the resultant piece, the lovingly-told story, the tribute testimony, is breathtaking._

_It sits in front of them, and in the wrappings that protected it in transit, they withdraw a small card from the studio. The pre-printed words are concise._

_Kintsugi:  Fixing the broken and making it beautiful._

_Embrace your pain and damage, define your imperfections and see them for what they are: Beautiful. Unique. Emblazoned with golden significance._

_In handwritten script at the bottom, an amendment, a codicil, a postscript:_

**_The shape of us is impossible to see until we are broken._ **

_It is signed by the artist._

_John whispers the words out loud._  

_They breathe together, taking these moments to bond with the piece, to appreciate it, and though Sherlock yearns to take John in his arms, to hold him and soothe and stroke his beautiful scars, he does not. Instead, he lets the moment rise, swirl around them, bind them together._

_'You realise,' he says softly, 'this was practically given away.'_

_'Yes,' John replies. 'For some reason, he fully intended it to be ours.'_  

_Their fingers intertwine as they look, Sherlock's long ones into those protruding from the end of John's cast._

_Light from behind them illuminate the burnished golden colours, the seams, the reshaped and recrafted bowl._

_'What do you see?' John whispers, and Sherlock knows he is not speaking solely about the bowl. 'The damage?'_

_Sherlock considers, pauses, his fingers still within John's touch, and then slowly and deliberately turns to study John just as closely._

_'I do not see damaged goods, John.' Another hesitation. 'I would agree, however,' he continues, 'that there are scars. Beautiful scars.'_

_'Ugly,' John replies, quiet._

_’These aren’t.’ His fingers touch the bowl. ‘Neither are these.’ His gaze, his touch, reaches John. His face, his chest._

_‘There is beauty in brokenness,’ is Sherlock's hushed reply. His fingers find John's scar from the chest tube. He leads John's fingers to the well-healed round scar on his own chest, and for a time they simply stand, touching, completing the circuit. Both are aware of the many scars, visible and non-visible, the other has on his body. On his mind._

_'Beautiful.'_

_Indeed._

_An embrace follows, a tall head tips down over a silvery blond one, jaw to forehead, hands wrapping and embracing and holding. Sherlock's brow puzzles then, furrows slightly, and he angles his head as if thinking, distracted perhaps. John draws back just enough to see his face, a curious, smiling, listening look on his own face. Sherlock issues a short burst of breathy exhales, not quite laughter but close._

_'I swear I hear music, soft, just a little. That piece from Pachelbel that you like.'_

_'How is that possible, that I hear it too,' John responds. 'Mrs. Hudson, the radio?' he asks._

_Sherlock shakes his head as the embrace tightens. 'I don't think so.' And they both look again, comfortably, at the bowl._

_The bowl shimmers and dances in the light, perfectly at home in its new surroundings. At peace, finally._

_Singing._

_Beautiful._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few things I intend to tighten up with this final chapter, which I will do over the next few weeks, nothing big, just cleaner with less loose ends. Please let me know (nicely) if there is something blatant about it.
> 
> Thanks again for following along. I have always been intrigued by this type of artwork and think it sums up this relationship (and many like it) quite well. For them it's very literal, the scars. Other scars for many, myself included, are invisible and oh so deep. I remind us all that we are unique because of our experiences, and we have great potential to reach out with compassion, to help other people - other hurting people - because of it.
> 
> ++
> 
> Heard a lovely song that ... _spoke_ to me and brought this piece to its conclusion called "Mended" by Matthew West. Some of the lyrics, "when you see wounded, I see mended. You see the scars from when you fell, but I see the stories they will tell. You see worthless, I see priceless, You see pain, but I see a purpose" ... Here is the [Link!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Otg-5p7qug/)
> 
> There is also, of course, Alessia Cara, Scars to your Beautiful, [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWASeaYuHZo)


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